


Three's Company

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexual Character, Caring, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Kissing, Love, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, No Sex, Polyamory, slight BDSM references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of how Kitty Winter came to be included in Moriarty and Moran's relationship.<br/>Previously Moran and Miss Winter were lovers but later he, in part because of her encouragement, chose to enter into a committed relationship with the one he had truly fallen for, James Moriarty. Now though when Moran is taken ill, Moriarty realises the extent of his companion's and Miss Winter's continued regard for each other, and begins to wonder if this affection might enhance the lives of all three of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fic prompt: "Have you written one about how Kitty came to be included in the relationship? If not, I prompt that and suggest that it should have hurt/comfort" (my existing OT3 is Moriarty/Moran/Winter. I really didn't intend to write a fic of this length but apparently I have a lot of feelings about them).
> 
> (This is an account of how their three-way relationship came about, it doesn't really cover their relationship beyond that beginning. Basically it's not smutfic.)

   John Donahue is his name, a frequent thief, occasional hired killer, and of late – after he has become too big for his boots and thought to make threats against Professor Moriarty – Moran’s target, although this is not about killing him yet, merely carrying out surveillance. Moran follows him through passages and alleyways, under lines strung with dripping grey sheets, along a cobbled street where a group of children play with a barking terrier. Donahue of course does not know that he is observed for Moran is far too good at tracking his prey for him to realise that. When at last the man disappears into a house, Moran waits, still watching, standing in the shadows to light up a cigarette.

    A quarter of an hour passes and Moran wishes it wasn’t so bloody cold. His fingers are chilled even though his gloves and now an icy rain has started up, sending the children and dog indoors. He huddles further into the meagre shelter of the doorway of an old warehouse and tries to stop the chattering of his teeth. It’s becoming harder and harder to focus now, not just because of the chill but because his whole body feels leaden and his usually sharp mind seems to be dulling by the moment.

    He curses as he throws his cigarette end to the floor and grinds it under his boot. _Fucking weather._ But this is more than just the winter air, he realises as he shifts position and the world seems to spin around him. He splays a hand against the damp bricks, trying to steady himself. It doesn’t work.

    Sebastian Moran is a man who pushes himself hard, not wanting to fail himself and certainly not to let his professor down. Deep down he knew before he even ventured out this morning that he was taking sick, feeling a chill down to his bones that was not only from the external cold, and a degree of lethargy that threatened then to compromise his ability to keep pace with Donahue. He had the beginnings of a cough and a sore throat too and a dull ache all over and now he’s getting worse, so that breathing in the cold air feels like breathing in fragments of glass and it’s becoming harder and harder to move. He would like nothing more right now than to be wrapped in a blanket upon the sofa before the fire (or better still curled up in bed with the professor).

    His attention is caught suddenly by movement across the street, as finally Donahue exits the house, although as Moran watches Donahue pauses and turns back, leaning in to kiss the woman who stands there, before he puts his hat back on and strolls jauntily away. The woman remains in the doorway for a moment, watching him, then she turns and heads back inside, shutting the door behind her.

    Now Moran does not follow – there is no need; he has the confirmation he needed, of Donahue’s present location and who he associates with. Time to return home then, to a nice fire, a warm blanket and maybe a drop of brandy.

    But when he tries to put one foot in front of the other to slink away, the world begins to spin around him once more and he is forced to lean against the doorframe, trying to will it to become still again. There is a ringing in his ears and he feels so very tired now. Perhaps if he just settled in here, in the shelter of this overhang, perhaps he might rest a while and regain his strength.

    He puts his back to the wall and lets himself sink down, hunching up, his head tipping forward to rest against his knees, and there he loses consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

   “Sebastian,” the voice says from a long way off. A hand touches his shoulder, shaking him roughly. “Seb, wake up, for Christ’s sake!”

    He struggles to get his eyes open and peers up blearily, trying to focus on the silhouetted figure standing over him.

   “Seb?” she says, and puts a cool hand, gloved in lace, to his cheek. He smells rosewater and jasmine on her skin as she does so.

   “Kitty?” he croaks.

   “Christ, you look like death,” she says. “I thought you _were_ bloody dead. Come on, get up.” She has a hand under his arm before he can protest. She’s far smaller and lighter than he is but he’s weak as a kitten now and besides, Kitty Winter is a determined young woman. “What the bleedin’ hell are you doing out ‘ere in this state?”

   “Business,” he says, swaying dizzily as she hauls him up. “Just, business.”

   “Hah,” she says, a disdainful smile flickering over her face. “Oh aye, I know your business, Seb, and I always reckoned it’d get you killed sooner or later. Well you are bloody lucky I was passing this way is all I can say. Come on, you’re goin’ home. Best see if we can find you a cab seeing as I ain’t bloody well lugging you all that way.”

   He stumbles alongside her obediently, unquestioningly. It’s Kitty after all, the girl who he first encountered upon his return to England; who rapidly became his lover and close friend and who did not forsake him even when she came to understand that his attraction ran to both women and men, and then that he had fallen in love with another man. To his regret he has rather let his friendship with her slide of late, although he knows that Kitty has her own life beyond him and he also feared bringing her into close contact with the professor too often. Although Moriarty has always been courteous towards Kitty on the few occasions they have met, Moran cannot quite shake his fear that sooner or later she may provoke Moriarty to do something unforgiveable.

     He can hardly protest though her meeting with the professor now, for he is in no fit state to argue with her, much less to make his way home by himself. Walking to find a cab seems to jar his body alarmingly, making his head throb. He wants to simply lie down and sleep and he does doze off again when Kitty manages to get him into a cab at last. He dimly hears her arguing with the driver, berating him for assuming Moran is a drunk when he is clearly ill, then he knows no more until the cab jerks to a halt and he hears voices somewhere a way off.

    “Moran?” A single male voice now, smooth but just the faintest bit strained as he addresses the colonel. Strong hands grip Moran’s upper body, helping him down out of the cab.

    He is shivering violently now but his head feels hot and as if it has been filled with gauze. “Professor,” he says, and leans heavily against him, trying to remember something that seems so incredibly important. “Professor, Donahue… He’s gone to that girl’s like I said, Anna… Anna…” He can’t remember the woman’s name though now.

    “Shhh, not now.” Moriarty slides his arm around Moran, half-supporting and half-carrying him up the front steps. Kitty walks behind, carrying Moran’s hat which had fallen off him as he got out the cab, uncertain as to whether she is expected to stay or go.

    “Oi,” calls the cab driver from his perch. “My fare?” he says, when Moriarty turns to regard him.

    “Wait!” Moriarty calls up to him, his tone rather quiet but somehow cold and imperious enough to cut clearly through the air like a blade. “You will be amply paid in a minute, I assure you, but at this very moment I have my hands really quite full.”

    “I’ll pay 'im,” Kitty offers, about to turn back to do exactly that now that she is not needed to physically support Moran, but the professor calls her back with a sharp:

    “No!” He hefts Moran up to stop him stumbling over the top step. “The colonel is my concern and I shall pay his fare.”

     Kitty stands at the bottom of the steps and rubs her rather frozen nose with the back of her hand. “Right then,” she says, glancing up at the driver and giving a helpless little shrug.

    “Miss Winter,” Moriarty calls to her, having managed to manoeuvre Moran through the front door. “Come inside.”

    Not a please or a thank you from a man usually possessed of better manners, which makes her pull a face behind his back. She is not precisely sure what is expected of her here nor what the professor’s motives are for inviting her inside, but she decides though that whatever he wants it beats standing out in the cold freezing her tits off so, without much hesitation, she steps inside the house.


	3. Chapter 3

   Kitty Winter is not the sort of girl who has to make her living working her fingers to the bone sewing buttonholes, nor one yet forced to sell herself cheaply to anyone who’ll have her. She is young, clever and pretty (not to mention nimble-fingered) enough to make enough to keep a roof over her head – one that does not leak overmuch – and to put food in her belly and procure clothes that at worst are usually only second-hand and not passed on from countless others before her. And with her occasional dalliances with men of a certain class, she is not unused to having a few of the finer things in life, though they do not always last very long. In short she is not of the very lowest class, but still standing here in this hallway, with its tiled floor, its richly papered walls, its ferns in glazed pots, she always feels just a bit humbled.

    Moran chose his life with Moriarty and that was all right with her. What she had with him was only ever meant to be a brief bit of fun, a quick tumble with a man not long out the army, one cast adrift without that institution’s guiding (or controlling) hand. The fact that it ever became anything more – that she came to develop a close friendship with him – took her by surprise, but that Moran felt an attraction to men as well as to women did not. Nor did it surprise her that it was his new employer, this Professor James Moriarty, for whom Moran developed something approximating romantic feelings, and Kitty encouraged him in that because, well, because it wasn’t like she wanted to marry him herself or anything, now was it? And because she cared for him and wanted to see him happy, and though it pained her a bit as over time she saw less and less of him, as Moran seemingly grew more uneasy about the professor’s reaction to his continued friendship not merely with a woman but with a former lover, she was pleased he’d found someone to settle with. He seemed to need that sort of lifestyle whereas Kitty was quite content to remain free from such things, thank you very much.

    She does miss, well, _shagging_ him though, if she’s honest with herself.  Moran was always a better lover than most, interested in pleasuring his partner as much as (or occasionally even more than) pleasuring himself. She still finds herself wondering sometimes if he misses her too like that. There have been moments where he looks at her in that old way, the way that says he thinks she’s the most lovely being on earth at that moment in time, and like he wants to put his mouth on hers, but then he stops himself from acting further, even of thinking of such things, his loyalty to Moriarty such that he cannot possibly kiss another, never mind anything more.

    Then there is Moriarty, who Kitty does not fully understand and surely never will, but she knows he’s no mere mathematics professor; she knows he’s dangerous, king of an empire old Vicky on her bloody great throne likely cannot even conceive of. Kitty though flirts with danger and relishes that delicious thrill of it. She lived on the streets long enough to get wise to the ways of the world, to learn how to survive; to steal, starting small, pinching apples or a loaf of stale bread, and working up to better things, and though she does not miss that old life she cannot conceive either of ever having a _normal_ life – marrying some bloke and settling down and popping out babies and running a home until she dies.

    Moriarty has long been wary of her, perhaps not entirely trusting her intentions towards Moran and likely only tolerating his lover’s continued (albeit infrequent, and brief) associations with Miss Winter because he is not so cruel as to forbid Moran to sever all old ties. On the occasions she has met him before though he has always seemed a bit distant, yes, but not impolite, as if he truly has no idea how he should react to her but is trying very hard not to upset Moran. Now his brusqueness with her is surely born of his concern for the colonel, so though her impulse had been to snap at him no she didn’t bleedin’ well want to go inside with him and he can deal with the dead weight that is Moran himself, she bit that back. Besides, Moran’s condition worries her too – she knows the stupid git pushes himself too hard often, shunning eating or sleeping at times if he has some particular ‘business’ to take care of.

    And so after putting the colonel’s hat upon a peg in the hall, she finds herself next in the sitting room, where Moriarty, after having divested the colonel of his overcoat, temporarily sets Moran upon the sofa there, placing a cushion behind his head before he straightens up.

    “Miss Winter, I…” Moriarty pauses as he moves to pass her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before he glances off, over her shoulder. “I fear he is running a fever. Perhaps… if you would be so good as to watch him for a minute or two, while I go and attend to the cab driver?”

    Clearly Moriarty’s precisely controlled and ordered world had no place in it for Moran’s sickness or for Kitty’s presence here in his home today and he looks rather lost briefly.

    “Of course,” she says, not wanting to make things any more awkward.

    “Thank you.” Moriarty exits the room and Kitty turns her attention back to Moran, half-sitting and half-lying on the sofa.

    “Well, you look in a right state, Seb,” she remarks, brushing his hair, now damp with sweat, off his forehead before pressing the back of her hand against it. His skin feels clammy and hot.

    “Kitty, I need to-” he says, and moves suddenly to try to stand.

    “Oh no you bloody don’t!” She shoves him back down sharply before he falls over anyway and he looks at her like a struck child, startled. “Sorry but you ain’t going anywhere unless me or the professor says so.”

    He drops his gaze to the floor, sitting there hunched over and shivering violently, looking the picture of misery. “Where is he?”

    “Gone to pay the cab driver.” There is a knitted blanket folded up over the end of the sofa and Kitty takes this, unfolding it and wrapping it around Moran’s shoulders. “You don’t need to thank me or nothing,” she says pointedly. “For bringing you ‘ome and not leaving you to freeze your arse off and get all your valuables nicked into the bargain.”

   “Thank you, Kitty.” He looks up at her, managing a weak smile.

    After regarding him sternly for a moment she laughs. “Christ, you’d think a man of your age’d know better than to go out when he’s sick like this.”

    “Just a cold.”

    “You’re burning up like the bleedin’ sun, Seb. In fact I ain’t had no breakfast today so maybe I’ll get a couple of eggs and some bacon and fry ‘em on your fore’ead.”

    “It’ll pass.”

    “Indeed it will, if you look after yourself, but if I hadn’t come to your rescue like the good Samaritan I am likely the only thing that would’ve passed would be you and I’d need a bloody spiritualist to be talking to you now. Bloody lucky, you were, that I found you.” Kitty punctuates her words with some sharp jabs of her finger in his direction.

    Moran now laughs, although his laughter soon turns to a coughing fit. “Everyone’s always said I had the luck of the devil,” he croaks finally.

    “Mm, me included.” She puts her hand to his cheek now, letting it linger there for a moment, before she hears Moriarty clear his throat behind her and sharply withdraws.

    “I, er…” The professor looks briefly thrown by the sight of Kitty touching Moran in such a way – a gesture really quite innocent in nature yet so casually intimate. “I think perhaps it would be most prudent if I was to put the colonel to bed.”

    Kitty eyes Moran thoughtfully for a second or two, compressing her lips to barely keep back her amusement. “Well, good luck with that,” she says, knowing full well Moran will vehemently protest at this course of action.

    Moriarty stands before Moran and puts his own hand to the colonel’s forehead. “You are running a fever,” he remarks. “You need to rest, Moran.”

    “I’ll be all right,” Moran says through chattering teeth. “Just, give me a minute or two.”

    “No, not a minute or two; you are going to bed and you are going to rest properly.”

    “But-”

      “Don’t make me drag you up there by your short and curlies, Seb Moran,” Kitty says in a tone that suggests perhaps she is only partially speaking in jest, and she glowers at him.

    Moran drops his gaze again and quietly lets Moriarty help him to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

  “This your room then?” Kitty says, trailing the pair into the bedroom and looking around it appreciatively. It is a nice room, not overlarge but definitely not poky either, with a good thick rug on the floorboards and a decent pair of curtains at the window. The furniture in it is obviously good quality also, and everything is clean and well-ordered, from the bed to the items on the nightstand to the small fireplace.

    “This is my bedroom,” Moriarty answers, directing Moran to sit on the edge of the bed. “It is rather warmer than Colonel Moran’s room, I think.”

    “Bloody big bed for just you,” Kitty remarks, eyeing the item in question. A very big bed indeed, with a cast iron frame, neatly made up with plump clean pillows and a nice eiderdown on it, and a stout blanket box at the foot of it.

    “Yes, well…” Moriarty does not trouble to try to come up with another explanation for this. Everyone in the room knows that he and Moran share both the room and the bed and not, like those in the poorer parts, because of necessity but because they prefer it so, so there is very little point in trying to continue with the charade that these days Moran’s own bedroom serves as anything more than a place to store his few personal possessions. “Moran, I think it is best if I get you out of your clothes and into your nightshirt.” Moriarty retrieves the item in question, clean and neatly folded, from the blanket box. “You will be much more comfortable.”

    “I can change myself,” Moran says, but when he tries to stand up the room spins around him again and he has to swiftly sit down again.

    “Don’t be daft,” Kitty says. “Let us help you.”

    Moriarty gives a slight cough. “Us?” he queries. “Miss Winter, I hardly think it is appropriate for you to…” He trails off under her glacial stare, wondering how she manages to conjure such a look in her brown eyes.

    “What? I’ve seen everything he has often enough.”

    This remark makes Moriarty glance down briefly, perhaps pained by this reminder again of just how close Moran and Miss Winter have been. “Still, I think perhaps it would not be fitting now for you to-”

    Kitty interrupts him with a roll of her eyes. “Christ, you men, thinking all the ladies will faint at the sight of a man’s pego. I’ve seen enough of ‘em in my time and let me tell you something, Professor, I ain’t ever seen one so huge it made me swoon – not even yours, sonny boy,” she adds, turning sharply to fix Moran with a stern look before he can say another word.

    Moriarty opens his mouth to say something and then promptly closes it again, deciding that there is really nothing he can add at this point and perhaps it is simply best all round to let Kitty get on with stripping Moran.

    Moran meanwhile looks rather deflated.

    “Did you let ‘im go out in this state?” she enquires over her shoulder as she deftly undoes Moran’s shirt buttons, swatting aside his own fumbling attempts to help her. “Sick as a dog what’s ate something nasty?”

    Slightly affronted, Moriarty says rather sharply, “Of course I did not! Had I known he was ill I would not have let him leave the house.”

    “I’m not a bloody baby,” Moran complains, but nobody is really listening to him.

    “Didn’t you notice he were ill before he went out?” Kitty asks.

    Now Moriarty turns fully away. “No,” he says quietly. “I confess, I didn’t see him at breakfast; he had already departed.” Which in itself was highly suspicious, he realises now. He should have known better – known that when he felt Moran slide from the bed before it was light that something was wrong and that Moran was trying to hide something from him. This knowledge hits him just a second before Kitty spears him with one of her looks that could cut through iron.

    “You should make sure he eats and looks after himself better. You know how he is, pushes himself to extremes even when he’s at death’s door.”

    “I am not his nanny!” Moriarty says sharply, half-expecting his tone and accompanying glare to be sufficient to cause Kitty to back down, but then he remembers who he’s dealing with.

    “No, you’re his bloody lover!” she snaps back. “So you should bleedin’ well take care of him!”

    Moriarty’s cheeks flush deeply and he presses his lips together, embarrassed not just by his failings but about having his relationship with Moran expressed so bluntly. Just because he and Moran are lovers does not mean he likes the label to be bandied about so, particularly not by Moran’s former _paramour_. The fact that she is close to Moran though is in part what keeps him from throwing her bodily out of the house – _his_ house - and telling her to keep her opinions to herself (which in truth would be letting her off rather lightly compared to some who have dared to challenge the professor so). The other portion of what keeps him from doing such a thing though is that she intrigues him far too much to cast her out.

    This feisty young lady is not afraid of him. A little intimidated by her surroundings, maybe, but not frightened, and when it comes to Moran – a man she evidently cares about deeply – then she will fight for him like a tigress for her cubs. Such a formidable woman is not to be so lightly tossed aside or made an enemy of.

    He watches her in thoughtful silence as she removes Moran’s boots and trousers, then next his underthings. His gaze drifts to Moran’s face then, who looks embarrassed now. Not usually shy about his body, nonetheless Moran is far from comfortable about being naked, albeit briefly, in front of his past and present lovers simultaneously.

    “There now,” Kitty says, when she’s got the nightshirt over his head and pulled it fully down to cover him. “Now you get into bed.”

    Moran is more passive around her than he would probably have been with him, Moriarty notes. No doubt it is the colonel’s peculiarly chivalrous nature manifesting again. Although he knows that women are not all the delicate flowers that many other men would prefer them to be, and he is also fully cognisant of the fact that Kitty Winter is a particularly _indelicate_ creature, he is much less inclined to challenge, argue with or otherwise risk doing anything to cause offense to a woman than he is to a man. Moriarty has occasionally wondered if Moran is not in fact a little bit intimidated by women. He can well understand now why this might be the case.

    So Moran gets quietly into bed and lets Kitty pull the eiderdown over him, while Moriarty fetches an extra blanket from the chest. Kitty helps him spread this over Moran (who already is beginning to doze again), noting how Moriarty looks at Moran as she does so.

    “He’ll be all right you know,” she tells him.

    “I’m sure he will,” Moriarty says automatically, but she can tell by the brief clench of his jaw and the lines of tension in his forehead that he is troubled by his companion’s condition.

    “Keep him warm, let him sleep and make sure he drinks and eats, something nourishing but nothing too hard for his body to digest. Get some nice broth made up for him, that’ll see him right.”

     “Yes, of course.” Still Moriarty does not drag his gaze from Moran’s face. The colonel’s cheeks are flushed but with fever, not embarrassment, and his hair is still damp with sweat.

    Kitty looks at Moriarty standing there, the usually so controlling and controlled professor seeming really quite lost for a minute, and she wonders if it would be wrong to give the professor’s hand a little squeeze to reassure him. But that would be overly familiar, she supposes, and probably Moriarty is not the sort of man to welcome such an action, so she doesn’t; just takes a step back and pretends not to notice (because she thinks he’s probably much more comfortable that way) how Moriarty gently pushes a few sweat-soaked locks of hair off Moran’s face.

    “Rest for a while, Sebastian,” he says in a low tone, so softly that perhaps Kitty isn’t even meant to hear that he uses Moran’s first name. “Perhaps in a few minutes you might drink some tea, and I will have some broth made up for you.”

    Moran, losing himself now in a world of soft pillows and warm blankets and the professor’s soothing touch, murmurs something in response.

    Kitty, standing close by the door now, cannot quite make it out, but she strongly suspects that one word of it is _James_. Now she turns her gaze away, feeling momentarily that she is intruding here on something very private and intimate between the two men and that having got Moran safely home and to bed she should now depart. She is not, after all, Moran’s wife, nor his sister or mother or even his lover, not any more. Lost in such thoughts, it takes her a second to realise that the professor has now addressed her.

    “I’m sorry?” she says upon hearing him call to her again.

    “I, ah, I heard you downstairs saying that you had not partaken of breakfast today.” Moriarty has straightened up fully now, leaving Moran’s side to face Kitty directly. “I thought perhaps then you might be in need of some refreshment. I can ring for the maid and have something prepared for us.”

    Kitty looks into his face, noting how he has stumbled slightly over his words again, and she grasps that in his own repressed sort of way that he is extending much more than an invitation to take tea with him to her. This is also him understanding that she does not yet wish to leave Moran, at least not until she knows he has got some nourishment into him, and making an effort to accommodate her.

    “I would like that, thank you, Professor,” she says. “It is very kind of you.”

    Moriarty is apparently unsure of how to respond further to her, and so he turns his attention to ringing for the maid and issuing instructions to her when she comes to the top of the stairs to see what is the matter.

    The maid is a young woman, probably several years younger than Kitty. A dull-looking sort but clean and dressed neatly enough and though slim she is evidently not starved. Kitty watches from behind the door as the professor explains what he wants to the girl. You can tell a lot about a person, she thinks, from how they treat their servants and how their servants behave towards them also. Of course Moriarty might only pretend to be nice to her while Kitty’s here, but if that were the case there would still be subtle signs of his true nature. This girl then, she’s obviously still a bit edgy around the professor but Kitty gets the sense it’s more because the girl is simply the timid sort who’s probably scared of her own shadow and not because of any past cruelty on the professor’s part. Although she doesn’t look him in the eye as she listens to his instructions, she does not cower before him or show any unconscious signs of real fear and he addresses her in a kindly manner, with courtesy. This is not unexpected to Kitty, who is well aware that Moriarty could not possibly have gained Moran’s loyalty and even _love_ simply by terrorising him into submission, nor even by offering him large sums of money. True loyalty, real deep unshakeable loyalty, is gained by other means, and maybe treating his trusted employees with kindness is one of them.

    She smiles faintly, reassured that she was right to encourage Moran to follow his heart all those months ago.


	5. Chapter 5

   Time passes in a daze for Moran, who drifts in and out of consciousness and possibly also in and out of lucidity. At one point he comes to to find both Moriarty and Kitty standing by his bedside and – even more bizarrely – seemingly not attempting to assault each other. Since he presently has no memory of how he came to be back here in his own bed he decides he must be hallucinating and falls asleep again.

    He is woken again briefly some time later to find the professor supporting his head while holding a cup of weak tea to his lips, urging him to swallow a few mouthfuls, but after doing as he is told he dozes off again. Thus he does not notice the professor and Kitty taking tea together in that very room, with Kitty, seated in the chair in the corner of the room, wolfing down a selection of sandwiches and cakes in a manner that makes Moriarty have to look away in embarrassment.

    “Sorry,” she says, licking cake crumbs from her fingers. “I ain’t eaten since yesterday. I forgets my manners when I’m starving.”

    “Quite all right,” says the professor, though he pointedly hands her a napkin. He looks over at the now sleeping Moran and watches him in silence for a minute or more before he turns back to regard Kitty and clears his throat. “Miss Winter…”

    “Mm?” she says, dabbing her lips with the napkin.

    “You need not answer this if you would prefer not to but I feel that I must ask regardless… what is the nature of your regard for Moran?”

    “My regard?”

    “Yes, I mean…”

    “Do I want to get into his drawers again?” She flashes him a sly grin. “Sure I do, but I ain’t done so, not since he took up with you.”

    “Do you think he is still…?” Moriarty is uncertain how to phrase this question, or perhaps it is more that he knows how to phrase it but does not wish to hear the answer confirmed. “Does he still… desire you, in your opinion?”

    “In my opinion… yes. Truth be told, Prof, that’s _all_ we had at first – lust, I s’pose you’d call it. And that spark remains, but he does not act on it and I ain’t tried to persuade him to neither.”

    “And do you…” Moriarty clears his throat again. “Do you love him?” Yet surely he already knows the answer to this. Kitty would not have brought Moran here or remained with him if she didn’t love him.

    “I s’pose. Are you eating that by the way?” Kitty eyes the untouched piece of fruitcake on Moriarty’s plate. He hands it over to her at once, more concerned with the conversation than cake at this time. “It ain’t like I want to marry him,” she says, before taking a large bite of the cake. She chews and swallows this before continuing. “But sure, I s’pose I still love him, but not like…” _Not like you do_ , she could say, but then this is one of those instances where she should let such things remain unsaid, and Moran doesn’t love Kitty like he loves Moriarty also, but she cannot say _that_ either. These men and their repressed emotions are so tiresome sometimes. “Sebastian is my friend,” she says at last, after taking another bite of cake. “That’s all. Well I mean, that’s all apart from the…” She waves the piece of cake in the air momentarily as she tries to think of a way to express things in a way that won’t embarrass Moriarty again.

    “Lingering erotic attraction?” he suggests.

    “Mm, summat like that.” Well it’s more or less accurate, she supposes, albeit in an overly fancy sort of way. She pops the last bit of cake into her mouth and beams at him. “Honestly?” she says after swallowing the cake. “You may have him, Professor – James; may I call you James?”

    “I, er…” Moriarty fiddles with his shirt cuff momentarily. “I suppose so.”

    “I don’t want him, not like you do.”

    “I see.” Moriarty is not entirely sure that he does see but Kitty is so forthright with her words that he finds himself going along with it nonetheless.

    Kitty stands up and brushes a few crumbs from her lap.  “It troubles you, don’t it?” she says suddenly, glancing up at him.

    “What does?”

    “That you care for him so.”

    The professor rubs at the nape of his neck. “I do not-”

    “It ain’t no sin to love someone, you know.”

    “Miss Winter I assure you-”

    “That you don’t love him?” She arches a thin eyebrow at him in unconscious imitation of some of his own gestures perhaps. “Or that you do not concern yourself with daft ideas about what is sinful? You ain’t a religious man, are you James?”

    “I am not.”

    “Then you mustn’t give a toss about sodomy being deemed sinful.”

    “Miss Winter!” Moriarty sits back in his chair, lips pressed tightly together.

    “Kitty,” she says.

    “What?”

    “You may call me Kitty.”

    “Miss W- Kitty.” He puts his hand to his head and rubs his temples for a moment. “I must question your motives for speaking so.”

    “My motives?” Kitty has stationed herself by the head of the bed once more although she now throws a glance back at Moriarty. “Oh so it’s all right for you to question me about my regard for him but not for me to do the same to you?”

    “My attitudes towards sodomy and towards Colonel Moran are two entirely separate issues.”

    “Not entirely separate, I’d ‘ave thought.” Kitty shoots him a wicked grin before directing her attention back to Moran. Moriarty is about to argue this point, or argue something at least (perhaps that his _intimate_ life with Moran is none of her damned business) when she says, “No, ignore me, James, I don’t mean to pry into your private affairs.”

     This immediately derails Moriarty’s rising anger, leaving him to slump back in his chair and realise then that she was right, of course: he questioned her first, thus for her to question him in return was understandable and perfectly fair. He is wondering if he should attempt to make some manner of apology (although he is uncertain precisely what for) when Kitty speaks again.

   “Does he look paler to you?”


	6. Chapter 6

   The professor scrambles out of his chair at once and steps alongside Kitty.

   Moran does look very pale, although there are spots of colour in his face too. When Moriarty puts a hand to Moran’s forehead Moran groans, although he seems also to lean into the touch. He is still shivering violently, obviously gripped by a case of the chills.

    “Perhaps I should send for the doctor,” Moriarty says.

    “No doctor,” Moran says quietly, without opening his eyes.

    “You are ill, Moran.”

    “I ain’t dying.” Moran now opens his eyes and lets his gaze drift from Moriarty to Kitty. “You are really here then; I thought I was dreaming.” He chuckles but this soon turns to a cough.

    “You in pain?” Kitty asks him, trying to prop him up a little more on the pillow.

   “Nothing serious.” When Kitty narrows her eyes at him he decides it is best to elaborate in case she decides to slap a better answer out of him. “Bit of an ‘eadache and a sore throat, is all.

    “Hmm.” Kitty looks back at Moriarty. “You got a thermometer around the place?”

    “There will be one downstairs. I shall go and fetch it.”

    “I’d say make sure it’s one you need to stick up his arse,” Kitty calls after the departing professor. “To teach him a lesson for giving me the shock of my life earlier when I saw him passed out like that, but then I reckon he’d probably enjoy that.”

    Moran is not certain but he strongly suspects that Moriarty, now heading down the stairs, has just barely managed to suppress a guffaw of laughter at this remark.

   Kitty seats herself on the edge of the bed beside him and runs her hand down his shoulder. “You still look like death warmed up.”

    “Maybe I’m worse than I thought, for it seems I am imagining queer things.”

   “Oh?”

   “Mm, you and the professor, here together, being civil to each other.” Moran’s gaze has fallen briefly on the tea tray across the room, with its empty cups and plates. “And taking tea?”

   Kitty shrugs. “He offered.”

   “Strange.”

   “Not so strange, he’s a gentleman, your James.”

   Moran’s eyes widen slightly. “ _James_?” he says incredulously.

   “Yes, we are on a first name basis now.”

   “Christ,” he says. Never mind hallucinating, Moran now is left to wonder if he hasn’t blacked out and woken up in an entirely different world.

   “Why shouldn’t we be? We both care for you, in our own way.”

   “He said as much?”

   “Don’t ‘ave to. You and ‘im, Seb, I don’t know the ‘alf of what you get up to but I know it ain’t all legal – and I ain’t just referring to ‘im buggering you.” She takes up Moran’s hand, threading her fingers through his and letting them rest there together on top of the blanket. “And I know there’s more to him than there seems to be, but whatever else that man is, he cares for you, so we have you in common, see?”

   “I see.” Moran sounds most uncertain about this. “Look, Kitty, I’d like you and him to be friends but…”

    “But what?”

    “Well you can be very…” Moran tries to think of a polite way to say that Kitty tends sometimes to open her mouth before fully engaging her brain and wondering if it was the best course of action to say what she’s just said. “Plain-spoken, and not that the professor doesn’t appreciate that but if you start pressing him about his feelings and that…”

    “Oh don’t you worry your pretty head, Seb; me and James are gettin' along just fine.”

    “Hm.” He doesn’t tell her that he fears, if only dimly, that Moriarty could kill her. The professor is not some manner of raving lunatic who kills indiscriminately, or who commits murder over the pettiest of matters. He is far too composed and clever for that, and besides, surely he is well aware that if he ever hurts so much as a hair on Kitty’s head that Moran would not forgive him.

    But Moriarty’s affection for Moran is still something of a sore point with him, to a man who never desired or went looking for an intimate companion and was not precisely thrilled when he first obtained one (for surely to care for someone so is a weakness). Thus there is still that tiniest bit of niggling fear in Moran that if Kitty does say or do something to provoke Moriarty’s temper then it could well end very badly indeed for all concerned.

    When Moriarty returns to the bedroom though, Moran notes no anger in his expression or stance even though Kitty is still sitting on the bed beside him. A touch of unease, maybe (for even the confident and assured Moriarty is not immune to fears that he is not enough for his lover) but nothing that he cannot master.

    Kitty stands, not especially abruptly, and smoothes down her dress.

   “Open your mouth, Sebastian,” Moriarty instructs him. “And do not try to speak.”

    “I weren’t-” Moran says, but Moriarty promptly puts the thermometer in his mouth and he is obliged to shut up.

    The next few minutes whilst Moriarty waits for the thermometer to register Moran’s temperature pass in silence. Seemingly he is able to hold a conversation with Kitty while Moran is asleep but with him conscious this changes things. He contents himself with fussing with the bedcovers while Kitty sits herself back down in her chair, although he notes how Moran looks at him, with a slightly questioning look, as if he is trying to puzzle something out.

    “Well?” Kitty asks at last as the professor reads the result.

    “A little high, but I think he does not as yet require the attentions of a doctor.”

    “Told you,” Moran says quietly, and he lets his eyes slip closed. He’s evidently tired out by now and Moriarty decides it is best to allow him to rest for a time again.

    “Miss Winter,” he says, and then pauses. “Kitty. I think that he is not in immediate danger now so perhaps-” He is about to try to suggest in a polite sort of way that her presence is now superfluous to both Moran’s and indeed his own needs, but Kitty interrupts.

    “I should be going,” she says, standing up. “He needs rest and I don’t want to distract him from that.” It’s not that she feels unwelcome, precisely, but she does know when she’s overstepped her welcome. Moriarty has been surprisingly amenable to her presence but if she pushes things too far too soon she knows she’ll probably wreck everything. Besides, the professor evidently wishes to tend to Moran himself (and though he is a man he’s probably capable enough to manage that, at least with the help of his servants) and he’ll manage better without her around when he’s not having to deny to her as well as to himself and Moran that he loves the colonel.

    “You have been most kind to him,” Moriarty tells her. “I am immensely grateful to you for bringing him here.”

    “It weren’t nothing,” she says, and Moriarty inwardly cringes slightly.

    Kitty’s syntax is somewhat jarring for the professor, more so because her manner of speaking tends to vary, with her seemingly trying sometimes to remember not to drop her Hs but then with those errant letters sometimes wandering off again when she forgets herself. Of course not everyone of the professor’s acquaintance (Moran included) are the most well-spoken of people but Moriarty does not tend to talk to most of those people for very long, and he has made an effort to get Moran to do away with the most heinous of his crimes against grammar.

    Still…

    He is intrigued by Miss Winter. She has a strange charm of her own, unconnected (at least for him) to her golden-brown eyes, her long flowing red-toned hair or her clear, pale skin with its light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks (nor to certain other portions of her anatomy, ones that Moriarty would prefer not to dwell upon but he has no doubts that Moran finds immensely appealing).

    And thus when he finds himself saying, as he escorts her out (after offering to arrange transportation for her to her own home, of course – an offer however she declines), “Miss- Kitty, you are of course welcome to drop by and visit Moran again tomorrow, if you wish.” Then he is not merely saying this out of politeness or through clenched teeth while he hopes with every fibre of his being that she will decline. No, the offer is genuine and also, maybe, just maybe, extended because he would like to meet her again.

    “Thank you, James,” she says. “I will do.” And then to his astonishment she decides to risk it and stretch up and give him a peck on the cheek – very quick, very chaste, but it startles him, although he cannot bring himself to censure her for it.

    Instead he finds himself putting his fingers to the spot where her lips touched his skin, and then smiling at her amusement over his reaction.

    “I’ll see you tomorrow then, James,” she says. “And give Sebastian my love.”

    And then she’s gone, out into the street, leaving behind a still somewhat bemused professor, and the lingering scent of rosewater and jasmine.


	7. Chapter 7

   Moran sleeps off and on for the next couple of hours. Moriarty decides to remain close to him, just to keep watch over him and check that his condition does not worsen. Therefore he fetches some paperwork from his study before settling himself into the chair beside the bed, where he reads and scribbles until the natural light in the room goes.

    At last, as the afternoon gloom begins to descend, Moriarty rises from his chair and stretches, trying to ease out the tension in his muscles from being seated in that not especially comfortable chair.

    “You didn’t need to stay,” Moran says, although his eyes are still closed.

    Moriarty walks softly over to the bed and puts the back of his hand to Moran’s forehead again. Still hot, still somewhat clammy. “It was no bother.”

    Moran opens his eyes and looks up at the professor, smiling slightly. “Apart from how bloody uncomfortable that chair is.”

    “I simply wished to keep an eye on you, and it did not prevent me from attending to my paperwork also.” Moriarty lets his fingers drift down to cup Moran’s cheek. “How do you feel now?”

    “Warmer than before.”

    “Too hot?”

    “No, not too hot.”

    “Any more pain than earlier?”

    “No, Professor.”

    “How is your appetite?”

    “Ain’t got much of one at present.”

    “Well…” Moriarty idly draws his hand away at last and moves to pour some water from the jug that he has had set on the nightstand into a glass placed beside it. “Perhaps you might take a little broth shortly.”

    “Perhaps.”

    “Here, drink some water.” Moriarty slips his hand behind Moran’s upper back, supporting him once more whilst carefully putting the glass to his lips and encouraging him to take a few sips.

    Moran swallows thoughtfully, watching Moriarty intently as he sets the now half-emptied glass back down. “Truth be told, Professor,” he says, “seeing you like this is a bit… unexpected.” He might have said _unnerving_ , for it is somewhat, but he settles on _unexpected_ instead (for it certainly is that too).

    “I want you to be well, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him, readjusting Moran’s pillow slightly.

    “But you don’t need to play nurse to me yourself. It seems rather… beneath you.”

    “So you would prefer it if I had a professional nurse brought in, would you?” Moriarty queries. Moran’s grimace in response is all the answer he requires though. “Or is it Miss Winter you would prefer to have nursing you?”

    Moran narrows his eyes for the briefest of moments, before he laughs out loud. “Kitty as my nursemaid? Christ, no. I dread to think how the power over me’d go to her head.”

    Moriarty considers this answer for a moment, wondering at it. “So… you do not fear that _my_ power over you when you are vulnerable like this might go to _my_ head?”

    Moran gives him a look that clearly says surely the answer is obvious. “Course not,” he says. “You _already_ have power over me, Professor.” Impulsively he lifts his hand (not without some effort, Moriarty notes) and holds it out to Moriarty, who takes it in his, squeezing it lightly.

    “And you are content with that, are you?” Moriarty asks.

    “Course I am.”

    “But not with the notion of Kitty having such power over you?”

    Moran chuckles again. “Not like that, no.”

    “Yet you still want her in your life, clearly.”

    “I still care for her, Professor. I cannot just turn off my feelings for her, not even if this causes you pain.” He peers up at Moriarty questioningly. “ _Does_ it cause you pain?”

   Moriarty glances away, looking into empty space briefly. “No,” he says finally. “No, not when I know that you have never betrayed me with her.”

    “And I never would, honest, Professor.”

    “I know that.”

    It must be Moran’s illness that has caught them both off guard, his fever inadvertently causing him to be that bit more open about matters than usual. In turn this has also made the professor dare to speak more openly about things that he would not usually discuss, perhaps because he knows that ill and sleepy like this then Moran is less reticent and more truthful, or perhaps merely because he hopes that perhaps when recovered that Moran will not remember much of what was said.

    He trails his fingers through Moran’s hair, lightly combing it down where sleep has tousled it. “You are mine, Sebastian, and mine in more than just health; in sickness also and as such I shall take care of you. However…” Moriarty now sits upon the bed beside Moran, heavier than Kitty, so that the mattress dips down rather more, but in almost the exact same spot as where she had seated herself earlier. “Though you are indeed _mine_ , it is not my intention to force a break in the relations between you and Miss Winter.”

    “I know that too, Professor.” Moran’s eyes have slipped closed again and his voice is somewhat slower and sleepier-sounding. He smiles contentedly though under Moriarty’s touch.

    “Do you still desire her, Moran?” the professor asks now, leaning forward slightly, to make certain that Moran can hear him.

    “Sir?” Moran stares at him.

    “Do you still wish to have physical relations with her?”

    “What, _now_?” Moran says this wryly, attempting to convey amusement rather than incredulity to give himself a moment or two to think how to answer properly – how Moriarty _wants_ him to answer. If he answers truthfully surely he will cause the professor pain yet if he answers dishonestly to try to spare his feelings then no doubt Moriarty will know it for a lie and hold such dishonesty against him. In place of an answer then he groans and rubs at his throbbing head. “Sir, this is not the kind of question I think you should be asking me, ‘specially not when I’m ill.”

    “Ah, so _now_ you will suddenly acknowledge fully that you are ill?” Moriarty’s mouth quirks into a smile to accompany the lifting of his eyebrows.

    “I fear you won’t care for my answer.” Moran buries his face against the professor’s arm so that he doesn’t have to meet his gaze any more.

    “I will care for your answer if it is honest.” Moriarty’s tone is still light, warm, and Moran risks a glance up at him for a moment before reburying his face.

    “ _James_.” The name a protest, a plea not to be made to answer, even though he knows full well he must.

    “Please just answer the question, Moran. A simple yes or no will suffice. Do you still wish to have physical relations with Miss Winter?”

    “ _Yes._ ”

    “Thank you for your honesty.” Moriarty bends over a little, inclining his head to place a kiss upon the top of Moran’s head, before withdrawing from him. “I shall see about that broth now.”

    “Professor,” Moran calls after him as he retreats. “It ain’t… I mean, it’s not a reflection on you and it weren’t ever a contest between the two of you because… because…” _Because you were always the one I wanted to spend my life with, not her._ His head feels so hot and achy and he can hardly think any more and he does not understand why Moriarty is asking him about this at all never mind right now, but he sees the sudden slight tensing of Moriarty’s mouth and the unwitting clench of his fingers. The professor is not angry, precisely, but, something else. Pained, probably.

   When he speaks though his tone is gentle still, and Moran knows better than most how Moriarty’s gentleness may only be a precursor to acts of cruelty but this, as much as Moran can read him in his befuddled state, seems different somehow.  “Shhh, Sebastian. Lie quietly for a few minutes. Save your strength now.”

    While Moriarty is absent from the room Moran turns his face to the window, watching the darkening skies outside and feeling utterly wretched in a way that has not very much at all to do with his aches and fever.


	8. Chapter 8

   Moriarty returns perhaps a quarter of an hour later with a tray bearing a steaming hot bowl of broth.

    “Is it poisoned?” Moran asks, although he is joking, of course he is, and the question requires no answer.

    The professor, after setting the tray down so that the broth may cool to a more bearable temperature, first lights the bedside lamp, then draws the curtains against the oncoming night, and then finally fusses with Moran’s pillows, enabling him to sit up a little better. At last he pulls his chair alongside the bed before taking up the tray again and setting it across Moran’s eiderdown and blanket-covered lap.

    Moran reaches automatically for the spoon but Moriarty gently presses his hand aside.

    “Allow me.”

    “I’m not a total invalid, Professor.”

    But Moriarty seems to need this more than he does, for whatever strange motivations, and so Moran acquiesces, opening and closing his mouth and swallowing obligingly when Moriarty slowly but steadily spoon-feeds him the broth.

    “Good boy.” Moriarty dabs at Moran’s lips with a napkin when he has swallowed the last mouthful. “How do you feel now?”

    “Well, to be blunt, Professor, I’m fairly bursting to take a piss.”

    Moriarty cannot fully keep back a laugh at Moran’s brutal honesty. “Aside from the condition of your bladder though, how do you feel?”

    “I think the worst of the chills have passed. Sir…” Moran suddenly has a slightly horrifying thought. “You’re not gonna make me piss in a pot, are you?”

    “No, Sebastian, I will allow you to go to the water closet, providing you are not too dizzy for that.”

    “I’m all right,” Moran insists, although the room does definitely seem to spin around him again when he tries to get up, and he ends up having to lean on Moriarty’s arm rather more than he’d like in order to go and answer the call of nature. Still, this is vastly more endurable than being made to use a chamber pot.

    Upon returning to his bed Moriarty settles him back in, lying the pillows flat and pulling the eiderdown and blanket neatly over him, all the while giving Moran the sense that there is something he wishes to say but cannot quite bring himself to utter.

    “Sebastian,” he says at last.

    “Yes sir?”

    “Before she left this afternoon, Miss Winter… She, ah, she asked me to give you her love.”

    When Moriarty’s hand comes to rest against Moran’s chest while smoothing the blanket, Moran impulsively covers it with his own. “You are, if I may be so bold, sir, taking things rather better than I feared you would.”

    Moriarty gives him a faint smile and does not remove his hand, but Moran sees something in the professor’s expression that he does not often see. _Doubt_.

    “I am a selfish person by nature, Moran,” he says. “And I see nothing wrong with that, by and large. However, I still find myself wanting you to be happy.”

    “I _am_ happy, Professor.”

    “Would you be happier though if you were permitted a closer relationship with Miss Winter?” Seeing the flicker of confusion that crosses Moran’s face, Moriarty quickly elaborates. “I speak not of you replacing me with her, but of allowing her more contact with you.”

    “Yes, I would like to see her a bit more, Professor, but I would not be happier if I thought that in doing so I was causing you distress.”

    Moriarty seems about to respond to this further but in the end only clears his throat before looking away and saying, “Miss Winter will visit you again in the morning.”

    Moran smiles wryly. “Was that your decision or hers?”

    “Mine, of course.” Though perhaps it was not, or not entirely. A silence of ten seconds or more passes before he clears his throat again. “If you are feeling a little more comfortable now perhaps you might sleep for a time again. I have one or two things to take care of and then I suppose I must take my supper.”

    “Of course, Professor; there is no need for you to stay with me constantly.”

    “I thought perhaps though I would have an early night.”

    “You needn’t on my account.”

    “I want to.” Moriarty presses his hand to Moran’s forehead to get a rough idea of his temperature again, to determine whether it is safe to leave him alone for a time. He feels warm but not alarmingly hot. “Rest now, pet. I will be back in a little while to check on you.”

    “Thank you, Professor.” Moran snuggles under the covers, feeling a little more reassured now about Moriarty. Evidently the professor has matters – _personal_ matters – playing upon his mind and that he needs to mull over in private, but he is not behaving coldly towards Moran, and that is something.

    Moriarty gives him a small fond smile before turning out the lamp, casting the room into darkness to give Moran a little peace, before he exits the room to go and sit in his study, and to think.


	9. Chapter 9

   Moran passes the night fitfully, drifting in and out of sleep, still feverish. Shortly after dining alone downstairs Moriarty, as promised, came up to bed himself, allowing Moran to cuddle up close to him for warmth.

     Moriarty sleeps little himself though and not only because of Moran’s restlessness. There are too many confusing thoughts still running through his mind – questions about whether he is worthy of Moran; whether Moran would be happier with Kitty Winter; whether Miss Winter would even want Moran for a committed lover; whether he can truly endure Moran engaging in close relations with the young woman.

    A little after two O’clock in the morning he is almost relieved to have to get up and tend to Moran, so that he may use Moran’s condition as a cover for his own sleeplessness. The colonel has been awake for an hour now and is evidently uncomfortable, despite his silence on the matter.

    After putting the thermometer back into Moran’s mouth, Moriarty fetches cool water in a bowl and a clean cloth and gently bathes Moran’s forehead, wiping away some of the feverish sweat and trying to give him a little relief.

    “Well?” Moran queries, when Moriarty removes the thermometer from his mouth.

    “The same as before.” He sets the thermometer aside. “Try to get some more sleep, pet.” Ruffling Moran’s hair affectionately before he moves to take the bowl of water to where it cannot be knocked over.

    “I’m keeping you awake,” Moran says, watching him in the soft light of the lamp. “I can go to my own bed, you know.”

    “This _is_ your bed now.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    “I will not have you going to the other room. In there you will most certainly catch a chill.” Moriarty smiles and Moran likes how soft and warm his features look in the low light.

    Moran hates enforced idleness, the times when injury and illness lay him low, or the occasions when winter storms or treacherously icy conditions have forced him to remain indoors for many hours at a time. Even in the small hours of the morning if unable to sleep ordinarily then perhaps he might go out and smoke a crafty cigarette (something which in fact he is rather gasping for by now, but he knows if he asks for one then it will meet with a sharp rebuke). Instead he is just obliged to lie here doing nothing but feel miserable until his fever passes.

    Still, perhaps there is some consolation to be found here. Moriarty is showing an unusual amount of concern for him (no, Moran amends this thought, Moriarty has shown great concern for him in the past, but the difference here is that he is being unusually open about it). Although faintly disconcerting (especially if he considers the root cause of this change in the professor’s behaviour perhaps – be it jealousy of or insecurity about Moran’s feelings towards Kitty), Moran finds himself enjoying having Moriarty caring for him so. It seems then that the professor is not the only one who has changed lately.

    “I am awake anyway,” Moriarty confesses. “Perhaps I might sit up for a time, but you please try to sleep.”

    Moran gives a slight huff of dissatisfaction at this for he also worries about the professor, particularly on Moriarty’s sleepless nights, but he says nothing further. There is no point in arguing with Moriarty. He turns over and closes his eyes.

    Moran’s outfit of earlier still lies upon the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, and Moriarty decides in the absence of sleep to deal with the clothing properly. He neatly places most of the items back onto hangers and stows them out of sight in their wardrobe (and that’s a wonder, he thinks; when did _his_ wardrobe become _their_ wardrobe?).

    Moran’s clothes always have a vague aroma of his cigarettes and now in Moran’s inner jacket pocket Moriarty finds the trusty tobacco tin and cigarette papers. Best to put these well out of his lover’s reach for now, he thinks. Medical opinion may be contradictory sometimes on the effects of smoking but Moriarty is certain with Moran stricken with a severe cold or influenza or whatever this turns out to be, he should not be allowed cigarettes. He clasps the tobacco tin in his hand for a moment though before lifting it to his nose and breathing in. Such a familiar scent, one perhaps more endured than savoured, but one which he cannot conceive of living without now. That scent has seeped into the very fabric of Moriarty’s existence as deeply as it imbues itself into the cloth of Moran’s clothing and if Moran was to leave him now, he would miss it.

    Foolishness, he chastises himself. Moran will not leave him, not for Miss Winter, not for anybody, and not merely because he is afraid to do anything but stay and serve Moriarty but because he cares for him.

    On the jacket though there is perhaps also the faintest whiff of Kitty’s perfume, which is perfectly logical and hardly a cause for concern. It is not as if Moran has sneaked out and then come back reeking of her perfume yet denied any encounter with her.

    Moriarty wonders again if he could endure allowing Moran to indulge in a more intimate relationship with Miss Winter again. Perhaps.

    In the bed Moran turns over onto his other side and opens his eyes again. “Professor.”

    “Do you need something?”

    “No, just, why don’t you come back to bed?”

    “Am I disturbing you? I could go downstairs if you’d prefer it.”

    “I’d prefer it if you came to bed. You’re fretting about something, I can tell, and I don’t like you being alone when you’re like this.” Moran bites his lower lip momentarily. “Kitty?” he suggests.

    “I am hardly ‘fretting’.” Moriarty quietly and subtly (or so he hopes) puts Moran’s tobacco tin out of the colonel’s reach.

    “Well you have something on your mind still and I reckon it’s her. Sir, if you don’t want me to see her-”

    Moriarty cuts him off as he sits down on the bed beside Moran. “My intention is to allow you to see her more – if that is what the pair of you desire, of course - not forbid you to ever see her again.”

    “And by ‘see her more’ you mean…?”

    “I mean… Perhaps once you are recovered we might invite her to join us for dinner one day.”

    Moran grins faintly. “A lady coming to dinner with two men, unescorted? Hardly permitted behaviour.”

    “I had assumed,” Moriarty says with a smile of his own, “that precisely one of the reasons that Miss Winter appeals to you is because she cares not a jot about what is _permitted_ and what is deemed taboo.”

    “And is that why she also appeals to you?” Moran asks, and then regrets it when the smile fades from Moriarty’s face and he looks away. “Professor, I didn’t… I did not intend to infer that-”

    “Yes, perhaps,” Moriarty replies at last. “She interests me and I would certainly like to get to know her better.”

    “You don’t have to on my account.”

    “It is not only on your account.”

    “Well, if you’re sure.” Moran reaches for Moriarty’s hand and squeezes it. “Please come back to bed now, James. I’m sure I’d sleep better if you weren’t wandering about the house.”

    Moriarty sighs, more of a fond, resigned sigh than a truly exasperated one though, and slides back under the covers. “Better?” he queries, as Moran snuggles close to him again.

    “Much.”

    “Well then.” Moriarty kisses the top of Moran’s head. “Go back to sleep now.”

    Satisfied then that Moriarty is not going to wander off to sit alone and sulk now, Moran sleeps.


	10. Chapter 10

   By the time it is light it seems that the worst of Moran’s fever has passed, although his cough has worsened. He slept off and on, as did Moriarty, although in the professor’s case he was up early enough to go and get washed and dressed.

    Moriarty takes his breakfast in the bedroom, consuming his bacon, eggs and toast along with his customary cup of tea seated in his chair with a tray on his lap while Moran, his appetite not up to consuming his usual hearty morning meal, has been provided with a bowl of beef and barley soup by their housekeeper.

    After this repast Moran is all for trying to get up but Moriarty is most insistent that he continue to rest.

    “Bloody sick of resting already,” Moran, never a good patient, snarls, and Moriarty realises that unless he is prepared to either tie Moran to the bed or remain with him constantly, he might have to reach some kind of compromise with him to ensure he does not push himself much too hard. Thus it is agreed (with only a moderate amount of carping from the colonel) that Moran may go and take a bath and change into a fresh nightshirt and if he does not feel too ill after this he might move to the sitting room for a time, provided that he does not then move from the sofa in there.

    By the time Kitty arrives then Moran is reclining upon the sitting room sofa, wrapped in his clean nightshirt, dressing gown and several blankets along with a pair of rather fetching, in Moriarty’s opinion, (and Kitty’s too when she sees them) striped woollen socks.

    “You look better,” she says when Moriarty shows her into the room. “Got more colour in your cheeks – the good sort, not from fever. ‘Ere.” She puts her hands into her coat pocket and offers him two large, fat oranges. “Got you these.”

    “Thank you.”

    “They’re good ones an’ all, they ain’t been boiled.” She puts the fruit down on the table beside the sofa before taking a seat beside Moran, unconcerned by how close this places her to him.

    “Miss Winter,” Moriarty says, pointedly not commenting on Kitty’s proximity to a relatively indecent Moran. Then he recalls her words of the day before and amends his means of addressing her. “Kitty, would you care for some refreshment? Some tea or coffee?”

   “I would, thank you,” she replies. “Although whichever you’d prefer, James, I ain’t fussed either way.”

    So Moriarty sends for tea and when it arrives pours it for Kitty first and Moran second before taking his own. Kitty of course also helps herself to several of the biscuits that have been provided along with it, giving Moriarty a sly smile as she does so. Well, he thinks, at least her apparent sweet tooth is something she has in common with him.

    “This is a lovely place you’ve got ‘ere,” she says, after eating two of the biscuits and then getting up to take a wander about the room, seemingly no longer so humbled by her surroundings and far more at ease in their home. “Very fancy.” She gives Moran a little wink. “You’ve really fallen on your feet, ain’t you, Seb? Nice ‘ouse, a nice fella to take care of you.”

    Moriarty cannot keep from flushing slightly behind his raised teacup. Even Moran though seems to blush a bit, he notices, apparently still finding it awkward to have his relationship with Moriarty raised by his former lover.

    “I am happy for you, Seb, and you too, James.”

    “I, er, thank you, Miss… Kitty,” Moriarty says.

    “Despite his many faults Sebastian here is I think a fine specimen of a man, and you’ve done well to tame him.”

    Moran glares at her. “What do you mean, many faults?”

   “You think you’re God’s gift to womankind when it comes to dabbing it up – and to mankind too, no doubt.”

    “I never heard you complaining about my talents.”

    “Just cos I weren’t complainin’ don’t mean you need to brag so.”

    “I do _not_ brag!”

    “And you’re a cheat.”

    “Not where it counts.” Card games are not important, he thinks; after all, the professor has never instructed him not to cheat at cards – and it takes skill to cheat well at cards.

    “You drink too much too.”

    “I can hold it.”

    “Not that night you ran out my room singing _The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery_ at the top of your lungs you couldn’t.”

    Moran seems too taken aback at this recollection to think of a response, at which point Kitty sits back down beside him and, with an air of smug triumph, pops another biscuit into her mouth, this somehow forming an effective and definite conclusion to her argument.

    “Miss Winter,” Moriarty says before clearing his throat. “Kitty, I was… That is to say, Moran and I were wondering if…”

    Kitty regards him with one elegant eyebrow lifted and her mouth full of biscuit. “Mm?” she says, and Moriarty could swear that she is amused by how tongue-tied he seems to have become in her presence. Is this how all women are when one gets to know them better, he wonders? So relishing the power they seem to possess over men? Probably not; probably Miss Kitty Winter is rather… unique.

    “We wondered if you might like to come to dinner when Moran is feeling better,” he gets out at last. “I would think sometime next week? Perhaps next Friday?”

    After some thoughtful mastication, Kitty swallows her biscuit. “Dinner with the pair of you?”

    “Yes.”

    “Just me dining with you both?”

    “Yes. Of course if you think the suggestion inappropriate-”

    “Kitty ain’t interested in anything that’s _appropriate_ ,” Moran retorts.

    Kitty elbows him in the ribs (gently, of course) and smiles sweetly.  “I’d like that, James, thank you.”

    “Excellent.” Moriarty leans forward in his chair, clasping his hands together in his lap, and now there is an amused glimmer in his eyes. Miss Winter, it seems, with her extensive knowledge of Moran’s private side, might be an even more interesting individual than he had assumed. “So, Kitty,” he says, “do please tell me more about Moran’s penchant for singing popular music hall songs whilst inebriated.”

    “Well, James, it was like this,” Kitty says, leaning forward also with a wicked glint in her eyes.

    Moran groans and buries his head under a cushion.


	11. Chapter 11

   Over the course of the next few days Moran recovers, although his cough lingers. His appetite returns by degrees until the broth and beef tea is replaced by increasing quantities of regular food, and Moriarty, though he closely monitors his companion’s health still, permits him to dress himself now, to spend more time sitting up rather than lying down, and at last to take a brief walk around the block arm-in-arm with the professor. For the latter he is however well wrapped up against the winter air at Moriarty’s insistence – something that Moran protests at even though he feels the cold keenly. He is a man used to dressing for speed and stealth (and, well, to be blunt about it, not infrequently to enable him to commit murder and get away with it) and to be forced to wear a thick woollen scarf not only around his throat but partway around his face also and to have his hands encumbered by mittens is anathema to him.

    Kitty, not wanting to overdo things now that she has been officially invited to dine with the pair (or in truth now fully convinced that Moriarty has Moran’s recovery in hand), has not visited again since regaling Moriarty with an account of Moran’s drunken escapades, after which they parted on agreeable terms, although Moran is not quite sure he has yet forgiven her for telling the professor of that event.

    After their short stroll, whilst seated before a roaring fire, Moriarty interrogates Moran about Kitty’s culinary likes and dislikes. This proves however to be not much help.

    “Kitty’d eat a horse if it was cooked nicely.” Moran scratches idly at his beard. “In fact she probably _has_ eaten a horse before. With some of those pies in the East End you can never be sure what’s in ‘em.”

    Moriarty, not a man well-acquainted with food of such dubious origin, sniffs disdainfully. “Yes, well, I think we can manage something better than cats’ meat. Do _you_ have any preference?”

    Moran shrugs. “Whatever you like, Professor.”

    Moriarty looks across at him thoughtfully, but Moran is now staring idly up at the ceiling, not much interested in the conversation, and fails to notice the glance. The colonel is strong-willed yet when it comes to such matters as their meals he is so passive, deferring to Moriarty’s decisions. It is not that Moran is cowed by the professor but his attitude to food is so different to Moriarty’s. Moriarty can find great pleasure in eating a fine meal but Moran seems to regard meals as being simply fuel for the body and as such is not overly concerned what’s in them so long as they won’t poison him.

    “I thought perhaps we would serve four courses,” he tells Moran, drawing the colonel’s gaze back towards him. “More may be customary for the finest dinner parties but I tend to find more than four courses too much myself. Besides, this is a very… _intimate_ gathering.”

    Moran narrows his eyes faintly, wondering at Moriarty’s choice of the word _intimate_ and pondering what the professor is plotting, exactly.

    “You’re relishing this, aren’t you?” he says.

    “What?”

    “ _This._ ” Moriarty flaps his hand at the notebook on Moriarty’s lap, in which the professor has been scribbling down ideas for the dinner. “The master of the house planning his dinner party to impress a lady. I noticed you’ve had all the best silver polished up – you might want to search Kitty when she goes by the way, check she ain’t pinched any of it.” He grins slyly.

    Moriarty does not look up from his writing. “I think I shall entrust it to you to ensure that she does not do so. So, I think a light soup to begin with, then a fish course – I thought salmon; after that a meat course, and then a dessert, perhaps a plum pudding. If of course Miss Winter is still hungry after that we could get some good cheese in also.”

    “I can get that,” Moran says at once.

    “You will not.” Moriarty points his pencil in Moran’s direction in a faintly menacing manner. “You are still recovering from your illness.”

    Moran groans. “Christ, it was a cold, I didn’t just lose a bloody limb or something.”

    “You still have a cough and I will not risk you making yourself worse again by sending you off running errands. Besides, we have perfectly capable servants for such tasks.”

    Moran still glares at him. “Force me to stay indoors doing sod all much longer and I’m gonna start shooting holes in the walls.”

    “That is precisely why, my dear Moran,” Moriarty says mildly, “I have confiscated your weapons until you are fully fit.”

    “You haven’t!” Moran says. He had assumed his guns were exactly where he last left them, but now he sees Moriarty’s expression – both eyebrows raised at him – and grasps the truth of his words. “You bloody have.” He barks out a laugh. “ _Bastard_ ,” he says under his breath.

    “I heard that.”

    “Maybe you were meant to. Bad enough you took my bleedin’ tobacco.”

    “I allowed you to have it back, did I not?”

    “After I’d gone _days_ gasping for a smoke.”

    “It did not kill you, now did it? And if you are truly desperate for something to occupy you then why not help me with this?” He taps his notebook.

    “Who do you think I am, bloody Mrs Beeton?”

    Moriarty ignores this comment and presses on. “What do you think for the meat course, beef or mutton?”

    “Either; both; I don’t care and nor will Kitty.”

    “Beef then.”

    Moran peers at him with narrowed eyes again. “Why _are_ you trying to impress her anyway? If you were any other man I might think you were trying to have your wicked way with her but…” He trails off, seeing the thin-lipped, oddly-secretive smile on the professor’s face.

    “Perhaps I am, my dearest Moran. It strikes me that Miss Winter and I have much in common.”

    “I don’t think Kitty’s ever killed anyone.” Although Moran does realise suddenly he wouldn’t be overly stunned were he to discover that she has.

    “Still, she is a person who exists somewhat apart from the rules and restrictions that society attempts to place upon her.”

    “So, you are trying to _recruit_ her?” Moran doesn’t quite know whether to be appalled or amused by this notion, but it’s an idea that has already crossed his mind. Moriarty has many employees (most of whom are unaware of just who they work for), in a wide and varied range of occupations and with many different skills, including a number of petty thieves and skilled pickpockets. It might even be possible to call him something of an equal rights pioneer, since he possesses no aversion to taking on women or even sometimes prefers them, for they are frequently far less likely to arouse suspicion than men.

   “Perhaps.”

    “But doesn’t the fact that she is my former…” Moran tries to think of a way to express this that does not sound too crude.

     “Paramour?”

     “Yeah, that. Doesn’t that complicate matters?”

     “Indeed so, but in a most interesting way,” Moriarty says without looking at him.

    “Hm.” Moran is well aware that Moriarty is not going to enlighten him any further as to what he is plotting. He cannot make himself care about the meal either so he lies down on the sofa and pulls the blanket up over himself. “Well, seeing as you won’t let me do anything worthwhile I’ll take a nap then. You enjoy looking up recipes.” This last remark is meant rather scathingly but then judging by Moriarty’s total lack of response and his apparent engrossment in his notes, it seems he _is_ enjoying this very much.

    Moran, quietly struck by this new and rather more domesticated than usual facet of the professor’s personality, realises that Moriarty may never cease to be able to surprise him, although he does not trouble to tell him this before he drifts off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

   Moran has no objections to dressing smartly either for the professor or for Kitty (in fact it pleases him to be told by the professor that he looks very smart), but the way Moriarty has seized upon this idea of inviting Kitty for dinner still rankles a bit, so he utilises his outfit for the evening as a means to express some of this discontentment.

    “Moran, stop it,” Moriarty commands when he catches his lover being far too violent in buttoning his dress shirt. “There is no need to be so forceful, you will rip the buttons off.” And he promptly bats Moran’s hands aside and takes over fastening the shirt up himself. “There.” He cups Moran’s cheek when it’s done. “What’s wrong, pet? You seem so disgruntled.”

    Moran pulls away from his touch. “I just… I don’t understand what this evening is meant to be about and I don’t like that I don’t know what you’re plotting.”

    “You trust me, don’t you?” Moriarty asks softly.

    Moran flicks his gaze across, but then Moriarty has him caught there. Of course he does; he would trust the professor with his life and in truth though he knows Moriarty to be capable of some very nasty deeds, deep down he does trust him with Kitty’s life also. “Yes,” he says, “but I still don’t like not knowing what you’re up to.” This time though when Moriarty touches his face again he does not pull away but nuzzles against his fingers.

    “I want the three of us to enjoy a good meal together,” Moriarty tells him. “After that, we shall see where things lead.”

    “I don’t want you putting Kitty in danger.” Moran does not now think that Moriarty would directly harm her but to involve her in some of his criminal activities could still put her at great risk.

    “Surely it is for her to decide how much danger she would like to place herself in?” Moriarty brushes his thumb across Moran’s cheekbone, and Moran drops his head now, pressing his nose to Moriarty’s inner wrist, below his shirt cuff, breathing in the scent of clean cotton and the slightest hint of cologne.

    Moran has an especial weakness for the professor’s own unique mixture of scents, from that cologne he applies sparingly on special occasions to the expensive brand of soap he prefers, to his hair oil, to the chalk dust sometimes to be found on his fingers and clothing. He finds these scents both deeply soothing and powerfully erotic, even though by now the stink of his own cigarettes should perhaps have destroyed his ability to smell anything else, and they can often completely derail any argument he had been trying to make, as they do now. “I just… I care about her, Professor,” he says against Moriarty’s neck as he leans against him.

    “Sebastian, stop worrying so much; it is not necessary. I would have thought you’d be glad to have the two people you care for coming together like this.”

    Moran does try hard to be pleased at this notion and in part he is, but the other more sensible part of him is still convinced that the evening will end with fireworks of a strictly metaphorical variety, and at best he will most likely be forbidden to ever see Kitty again.

    “Finish getting dressed now,” Moriarty instructs him. “Miss Winter will be here shortly.”

    There is nothing else to do but what he is told, so Moran goes to put on his tie and his freshly polished shoes and to comb and oil his hair, and then he fidgets until the cab that Moriarty has sent for Kitty arrives. He doesn’t quite know what he is expecting to happen in that moment when the three of them come face to face again but when she steps into the room he forgets everything, all his concerns, all his worries, for a few moments.

   Kitty looks exquisite, her auburn hair done up in loose, glossy ringlets, and clad in a beautifully made dress in a vivid shade of blue that nearly-perfectly matches the colour of the stone in the silver necklace she wears at her throat. Moran’s eyes rest on her eyes first, her body second, and then fall upon that necklace with sudden realisation. He bought that for her, before he and Moriarty became lovers, back when he and Kitty were… far more physically intimate. It had seemed like the thing to do, even though even back then neither of them ever believed that this was a conventional courtship that would one day lead to marriage. But he had seen that necklace and thought it a fine thing and something Kitty would like, and she _had_ liked it. He did not think though now that she would still wear it, particularly not in front of his present lover. He might even have expected her to have sold it long ago, keeping a warm place to live and putting decent food in her belly being more important than the trinkets acquired in a seemingly doomed relationship.

   He glances over and sees Moriarty’s eye has also been caught by the glint of the jewellery, and he knows then that even though he has never told Moriarty of that gift, Moriarty knows precisely who gave it to Kitty. Moran looks down at the floor and swallows thickly, half-expecting some cutting remark from the professor about Kitty brazenly flaunting her past intimate acquaintance with Moran in his face.

   Moriarty certainly hesitates for a second before he steps forward to greet her, yet when he does he sounds not merely charming but warm too. “Miss Winter,” he says. “Kitty, you look absolutely lovely.” He takes her hand very gently in his and kisses the back of it.

   “Thank you James,” she says, amused by his behaviour, sensing that this is a man totally unused to dealing with women in such situations. “You and Sebastian don’t scrub up too badly yourselves.” She flashes Moriarty and then Moran a dazzling grin, and Moran (for all of his experience both with women generally and Kitty specifically) finds himself blushing deeply.

   He forces himself to step forward to greet her however, then is struck with the thought than in complimenting her might he not make the professor feel inferior? “You do look…” He pauses to try to find a compromise that will offend nobody. Kitty has evidently dressed up for the occasion and made an effort to be rather more ladylike than in her everyday life, but in acknowledging this Moran has no desire to make it seem as if this is a contest between her and Moriarty. He wishes suddenly he had bothered to tell Moriarty that he looks nice before Kitty had arrived. “You look beautiful,” he says when he can hesitate no longer.

   “Thank you, Sebastian,” she says, declining to comment on his delay. This is a strange and unique situation she finds herself in, certainly, and though Kitty is not afraid precisely of how things may go, she is however a little apprehensive and as such understands Moran’s hesitancy. She has determined that she will not go out of her way to impress Moriarty if that means compromising her true nature, not even for Moran’s sake. The professor must accept her as she is or not at all, but the man does fascinate her and that is a rare thing for her to find. There is certainly an element here of both of them testing each other out, sizing each other up, as if ascertaining whether the other is a friend or a foe. There is still a degree of stiffness in their interaction, which is to be expected, as if neither is quite sure about the other still. Yet Moriarty’s behaviour towards her so far has suggested to Kitty more that he is truly interested in _her_ – her entire personality and nature - and not invested solely in finding out how much of a threat she is to him so that he may work out how to most efficiently neutralise that threat.

    She notes that it is Moriarty who primarily plays host, while Moran remains submissive to him, and that’s a marvel in itself – that Moran has found someone strong-willed enough who can control, even dominate him, but that he shows a willing acceptance of this. There is nothing to suggest resentment in him at Moriarty being in charge – quite the opposite. Thus it is Moriarty, despite Moran’s prior familiarity with Kitty, who leads her into the sumptuously set-out dining room; who ensures that she is comfortable and neither too hot nor cold; who pours wine for her into obviously expensive crystal glasses and generally fusses over her, while Moran remains largely silent.


	13. Chapter 13

    Kitty is not the kind of person overly familiar with fine dining, although she has from time to time been taken to some decent restaurants by certain men (Moran included), and so she does know better than to loudly slurp her soup or quaff her wine as if it’s mere water. Anyway, she doesn’t intend to get too drunk tonight. The professor seems to be a true gentleman and not one of those toffs who is all manners and compliments to a girl until he finds out she don’t want his prick in her at which point he thinks it fine to call her a duplicitous bitch and belt her across the face (although a swift kick in his most intimate parts soon subdued the last one who tried that with her) but she is hardly at the stage of totally letting her guard down around him. Interestingly, she notices that Moran is hardly drinking alcohol either, which is odd for him. Evidently he is not quite at the stage of letting his guard down either, perhaps thinking there will come a point where he might need to intervene between her and the professor.

    But it’s pleasant enough, even though the conversation seems a little strained at times. There are of course enquiries about everyone’s health although obviously about Moran’s in particular, but it’s evident from his colour and only occasional slight coughing (that and that he is not presently tied to an item of furniture to keep him from exerting himself) that he’s much recovered. Beyond that, Kitty and Moriarty evidently have very different backgrounds and life experiences and their only real common point of interest remains Moran, but she tries not to embarrass Moriarty too much by blurting out too much about her life as a pickpocket and occasional _courtesan_ and Moriarty refrains from boring her rigid with talk about mathematics and asteroids. Of course they are not left with much to talk about then (it also seems wise to avoid discussing politics, sensational crimes or anything too serious or too trivial), and even when they find a further common interest (namely, music), then of course Moriarty’s and Kitty’s interests are still not alike.

    “Have you ever attended the opera, Miss Winter?” Moriarty asks, suspecting strongly that she will answer in the negative.

    “Can’t say as I ‘ave,” is her response, and Moran half-expects the conversation to stop dead there and then. Moriarty though presses on unperturbed.

    “You really should attend one sometime, my dear. A well-performed opera is a rare treat.”

    To his left Moran, no great opera lover (not that he doesn’t enjoy going out in public with his professor, or sharing the private box with him, or even admiring some of the performers, but the operas themselves tend to leave him rather perplexed), seems to pull a face, and Kitty glares at him before Moriarty can.

    “I would certainly like to see one then, James,” she says, which earns her a smile from the professor.

    “Perhaps then one day you might like to attend a performance with me?” he suggests, with only the slightest hesitation, which makes Moran immediately glance over towards him. Perhaps, Kitty thinks, Moran is afraid he is about to be replaced as the professor’s companion. “Perhaps, if he can refrain from being bored for the duration of the performance-” Moriarty does now give Moran a brief glare. “Moran would also accompany us.”

    “They don’t bore me, sir, I just don’t understand why everyone feels a need to sing everything,” Moran protests.

    “If they did not sing then it would not _be_ an opera, it would be a play,” Moriarty points out.

    “Well what’s wrong with plays?” Moran cries.

    “There is nothing wrong with a well-written and performed play. However, Sebastian, I enjoy the music and the vocal performances. If _you_ wish to go to plays then go to plays; I am not stopping you from doing so in your own time. _I_ , however, wish to go to the opera.”

    “I don’t want to go to plays,” Moran grumbles into his wine glass, not even sure what he’s arguing about really, or why. “I’m just saying, I don’t understand operas.”

    “Yes, well, perhaps if Miss Winter does attend one with us you might find the experience more pleasant.” Moriarty reaches and covers Moran’s hand with his own briefly, deciding to derail this argument with a gesture of affection. Moran’s nerves are clearly strained not only by his uncertainty about the professor’s motives but also by his recent illness. “You _would_ like Kitty to come with us?”

   “Yes sir, I would.”

   “Well then.” Moriarty turns his smile back upon Kitty, who seems amused by this brief tiff between the pair. “We shall have to look into this and arrange an evening out in the future.”


	14. Chapter 14

   The food, for its part, is admirably done, having been prepared of course by the servants but all of it still overseen by Moriarty. The soup is tasty without being too filling, the salmon delicious and perfectly cooked, and the beef with a rich gravy and its side dishes of fresh winter vegetables and potatoes is superb.

    “Lovely food this is, James,” Kitty says, after sampling the beef.

    “So it should be after all the time he spent fussing over it,” Moran says with a wry smile, and that’s the first time tonight Kitty has seen him begin to let himself go a bit.

    “Ah, so you have a domestic side to you, do you Professor?” she teases gently, and relishes how he blushes slightly.

    “I simply wanted the meal to be perfect,” he says.

    “It is,” she assures him, and she smiles again and then hesitantly reaches and touches his hand, much as he earlier touched Moran’s hand. She expects him to withdraw but though he looks startled he lets her hand remain upon his.

    “Miss- Kitty,” he says, his gaze meeting hers now, and Moran looks at the pair in the soft lighting, aware that something significant is passing between them – the kind of unspoken communication more common between lovers than acquaintances and those being polite out of courtesy.

    Miss Winter is very beautiful, Moriarty thinks, and knows how to present herself in a way that best enhances her natural loveliness, with her dress; her jewellery; her hairstyle adding that additional touch of elegance without becoming too overpowering. Moriarty has never desired a woman as Moran has (in truth he has never desired _anyone_ as Moran has) and is more prone to considering the intellectual appeal of people alone, rather than their looks, and Kitty is not proving to be the exception here. As much as she interests him, as much even as he feels himself begin to grow fond of her, he does not _desire_ her. But in purely aesthetic terms he can understand her attraction and what it was that initially drew Moran to her. She is pretty and youthful and in broader terms she is vivacious and immensely endearing, be it in the way she laughs (genuinely laughs; not for Kitty the laughter politely stifled behind a hand) or her teasingly coquettish smiles, but she also seems to possess that quality of knowing when to hold back, even though her previously brusque behaviour might have suggested otherwise. Indeed now the better she gets to know Moriarty the more she seems to hold back where necessary, as if she truly cares now about now causing him distress.

    Some women (and indeed certain men) have simply been too much physically for Moriarty, wanting to force themselves into his personal space in a way he cannot bear, and he has been pushed to the brink of rudeness with them in order to deflect their attentions. Kitty however hesitates, clearly wanting to initiate further intimacy, even if purely of a platonic nature, but allowing him time to withdraw if that proves to be not what he wants.

   “I am truly glad that you could attend tonight,” he says, before glancing back at Moran, including him now. “We both are.”

    “Yes,” Moran agrees, and he sounds genuine enough. “We are.”

    “I am glad to be here,” Kitty assures them both, and she smiles again, while the light from the candles on the table gleams golden in her eyes, and Moriarty looks at her and thinks again _tigress._ Not a mere kitty-cat but a creature as proud and fierce and bold as his own dear Moran, and this notion rather delights him now.

    By the plum pudding a far more relaxed atmosphere has settled over the room and even Moran has taken much more wine now. Kitty meanwhile, though not fully inebriated, is certainly becoming a little bit merry.

    “That was bloody wonderful,” she announces after polishing off her pudding, and then she remembers herself and laughs. “Oh Christ, pardon my language.”  

    “Oh the professor doesn’t care,” Moran says, laughing too. “Do you?”

    “Not at all. I admire your candour, Kitty.”

    “I’m not entirely sure what that means and if you didn’t just say something very rude, but thank you anyway,” says Kitty, which then sets all three of them off laughing heartily. 


	15. Chapter 15

    After a typical dinner the ladies present might be provided with tea or coffee with only the gentlemen being offered port or brandy and cigars first, but this is not a typical dinner. So after withdrawing from the dining room and into more relaxed surroundings, Moriarty takes out a decanter of finest cognac and a box of fine cigars.

    “I am aware that this is not customary,” he remarks. “However, it seems to me, Miss Winter, that it would be most unfair for myself and the good colonel to indulge ourselves whilst leaving you to merely sip tea. Therefore, would you care for a drop of cognac?”

    She looks up at him, grinning. “If you were any other man, James, I might think you were tryin’ to get me on my back, but seein’ as it’s you, don’t mind if I do, thank you.”

    Moriarty pours a careful measure of the cognac for her and hands this to her, before pouring for Moran and himself, being discreet about observing Kitty with the drink. He notes with pleasure how she first smells and then carefully sips the contents of the glass, savouring it rather than knocking it back.

    “By God, that’s good stuff,” she says, and licks her lips

    “I am glad you appreciate it.” Moriarty now offers her the box of cigars. “Perhaps you might also care to try one of these? They should not, I think, prove to be too strong for you.”

    “Didn’t take you for a smoking man, Professor,” she remarks, taking one between her slim fingers. “Not like ‘im who stinks like a tobacco factory.” She darts a glance across at Moran and giggles.

    “As if you never stole half the cigarettes I tried to smoke around you,” Moran says pointedly.

    “Moran favours the steady – one might even say _excessive_ \- consumption of cigarettes,” Moriarty says, gently taking the cigar back from Kitty in order to cut off the end and to light it for her. “I however prefer to indulge in a good cigar now and then. There you are.” Now lit, he hands the cigar back to her. “It is best if you draw in the smoke for a few seconds and then let it out; don’t inhale it.” He can’t help noticing that Moran is watching Kitty very intently as she takes her first puff on it, the sight of her delicate lips wrapped around it apparently being very enthralling for the colonel. “Moran,” he says firmly, sitting down beside him on the sofa, “it’s rude to stare.”

     “Not bad,” Kitty concludes, after taking a couple more puffs. “I reckon that this sort of thing could grow on me.”

    “I reckon it could grow on me an’ all, watching you smoke like that,” Moran remarks, and he is sure that Kitty’s next puff on the cigar is even more deliberately suggestive in response.

    “Sebastian, if you keep staring at our guest like that I may decide to find an interesting new use for this cigar cutter,” Moriarty says with a rather meaningful look towards Moran’s groin as he neatly cuts off the end of a second cigar. This causes Kitty to dissolve into a fit of the giggles and Moran to glare at Moriarty, although he seems to be appeased when Moriarty hands the cigar over to him.

    “I will confess, Professor,” Kitty says after Moriarty has lit his own cigar, “that you ain’t exactly the man I thought you’d be.”

    “Oh?” he says, and beside him Moran sits up a bit straighter, just in case Kitty says something too provocative.

    “I imagined you’d be a lot more… strict.”

    “Oh I can be very strict indeed, Kitty, I assure you, but I reserve that largely for disciplining Moran.”

    Moran now turns an interesting shade of crimson. “Professor, she don’t need to know-”

   “No, I reckon I’d like to know,” Kitty interrupts him with a slightly sinister grin, before she smiles sweetly at Moriarty. “Do tell me more, James.”

    “A man like Moran needs to be kept in line, of course,” Moriarty says through his cigar smoke, to which Kitty nods thoughtfully. “I speak not of abuse, of course, but of correcting his errant behaviour and ensuring that he is properly respectful and even… _submissive_.” He puts his hand on Moran’s thigh as he says this, gently caressing him through his trousers.

    Moran grits his teeth and turns his face away, embarrassed not only by Moriarty’s words and behaviour in front of Kitty but also because of how he responds to them still. He expected (or feared) many things happening this evening but the professor divulging intimate aspects of their most private life together to Kitty was not one of them, but as humiliating as this still he can feel his heart rate increase and the beginnings of a certain familiar tingle in his loins. If he had expected Kitty to be shocked by such words and behaviour from the professor though he would have been wrong, for Kitty appears thoroughly fascinated.

   “You know there were times when I wouldn’t ‘ave minded givin’ ‘im a bit of a thrashing; still wouldn’t mind it actually,” she says, and Moran nearly spits his cognac down his shirt. “Oh don’t look at me so, Seb, like you thought me so innocent and pure.” She laughs sharply. “I know of men who like the girls they pay for to thrash their backsides with a belt or a cane or suchlike, and mostly I can’t see the appeal of ‘itting 'em myself not even if the pay were good, but you…”

    “No,” he says firmly, finding himself being eyed thoughtfully by both Kitty and Moriarty now. “Is that what you really wanted to bring her here for?” he enquires, standing up and backing away from Moriarty. “To get her to join in what we do?”

    “Not specifically, but it did occur to me that some of Kitty’s tastes might run parallel to my own.” Moriarty takes a sip of his cognac before holding out his hand to Moran. “Come back here, pet; sit down. None of us is doing anything more than talking tonight.” 

    Moran continues to eye him warily, but he finally relents and sits back down. 


	16. Chapter 16

    “What are you proposing though, Professor?” Kitty queries. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

    “You are well aware that Sebastian and I are more than merely employee and employer, and rather more than simple friends. What we are precisely is… well it is almost beside the point. However, he _is_ committed to me and that is the most important thing. Despite this I am also perfectly aware that you and he obviously still desire each other.” Moriarty calmly takes a puff on his cigar before continuing. “I am curious therefore if we cannot come to some arrangement which is mutually satisfactory for all three of us.”

    “You speak of… of _sharing_ him?” Kitty says incredulously, although she is more intrigued than ever. None of the three of them is exactly the conventional sort and so this notion coming from Moriarty does not truly surprise her, nor does the suggestion offend her sensibilities somehow. In fact it sounds like a rather agreeable idea, but she doesn’t want to sound _too_ keen in case this puts the professor off.

    “Perhaps. Within limits.”

    Moran squints at Moriarty through a haze of smoke. “Sharing me how? I know you’re not going to let me just go off and shag her.”

    “No, I was thinking more an arrangement with the three of us, together,” Moriarty says.

    Moran looks across at Kitty to see what she makes of this. She simply shrugs expansively and takes a pull on her cigar. “Sounds all right by me,” she says after blowing smoke into the air. Not that she is particularly physically attracted to Moriarty any more than he is to her – she does not find him aesthetically _unattractive_ but he is certainly not her type - but such a lack of chemistry between them in that one particular regard does not rule out a great many other possibilities. That lack of a sexual spark between them has also made it apparent to her that whatever Moriarty has in mind, it probably does not involve him lying directly with her anyway.

   Kitty is a woman of much experience when it comes to the more weird and wonderful intimate acts, if not all of it first hand then second hand through acquaintance with girls who cater for men (or even occasionally women) who have certain queer needs and desires. On the whole, so long as nobody is getting harmed, she figures that whatever floats another person’s boat is their concern and it ain’t her place to judge, and besides she knows from her own experiences that one or two of the acts that polite society likes to get its drawers in a twist over are actually really very enjoyable.

   She does not though have much experience of relationships involving two men at once, or nothing positive at least. There was a girl she once knew named Beth who had let two men have her at the same time, one of them doing her the regular way and the other doing her “up the wrong ‘un” in her words, and had declared it a painful and never to be repeated experience, but then Kitty is aware that Beth’s encounter was with two men she hardly knew, who treated her as little more than an object with which to satisfy themselves, and that they were almost certainly doing things without proper care and preparation. Moran on the other hand is a rogue, certainly, and Kitty also has many more suspicions about what else he is besides, but he’s always been a considerate lover, and Moriarty, well, the man’s still something of an enigma but she would _almost_ be prepared to swear now he’s not interested in hurting her.

    “If I was to propose, for instance, that the pair of you lie together whilst I observe,” Moriarty says, glancing from Moran to Kitty. “How would you both feel about that?”

    Although it’s already fairly obvious exactly how Moran feels about this – embarrassed yet in spite of this, or perhaps because of it, rather aroused. He’s looking into his cognac glass while a definite flush creeps into his face and when he speaks his voice is slightly hoarse. “I… I think… Kitty?” he looks at her for her response.

    She downs the last of her cognac, thinking very briefly, before answering. “Fine with me.”

    “Well then.” Moriarty gives a tight-lipped smile of triumph whilst he turns his attention to Moran. “Sebastian?”

    Moran takes a pull on his cigar for some seconds, trying to steady his thoughts and indeed his voice. “But… where’s the pleasure in that for you, Professor?”

    Moriarty regards him with some fondness, touched that despite his own real eagerness to do this that Moran is still concerned that Moriarty not feel left out.

    “I would still be participating, my dove, but simply in a rather less… _physical_ way. Besides…” He brushes the backs of his fingers briefly, gently, down Moran’s cheek. “There are many other ways we might also experiment amongst the three of us. Think of all the ways in which Miss Winter here might aid me in disciplining you, for instance.”

    Moran does think of some of them, and he blushes even more deeply and to his shame feels that his trousers are becoming rather tight, which isn’t helped by the titter of amusement that comes from Kitty.

    Moran has never been submissive to a woman before, and only rarely – before Moriarty – did he ever show such behaviour even towards another man. That does not mean he was some brutal thug who asserted his own dominance by forcefully taking what he wanted from whomever he wanted – far from it. But to submit fully to another can be profoundly unsettling and even terrifying and that can still be true even when he submits to Moriarty sometimes, as much as he craves Moriarty’s domination and as completely as he trusts him. Such fear may certainly be an aphrodisiac at times, driving him on to seek further control, further discipline, even sometimes further pain. The notion of submitting to a woman though has never appealed to him, not even to Kitty, whom he both loves and trusts. But now that Moriarty has raised the matter Moran is forced to acknowledge to himself that while submitting to Kitty alone still does not appeal, submitting to Kitty alongside the professor does excite him.


	17. Chapter 17

   “I think such an idea appeals to you, does it not, Sebastian?” Moriarty continues to gently stroke Moran’s face. “As it seems also to appeal immensely to Kitty.”

    But Moran shakes his head slowly. “Professor, I _can’t_.”

    “Yes you can, you know that you can. I will, however, never force you to do so.”

    Moran looks at him, head bowed, eyes half-raised, a silent appeal not to be made to do this, but it’s not the professor he has to appeal to really, is it? Nor Kitty, but himself – he has to get past his own reluctance, not a reluctance to submit to the pair but to admit to himself that he craves this.

    “Seb,” Kitty leans forward in her chair. “I’ll do nothin’ you don’t want.” Although it occurs to her now that she had earlier thought this would run very differently – that it would be Moriarty who was trying to persuade _her_ to do something she weren’t sure about. Funny how these things turn out.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty says softly. “What have I told you about submission before, hmm? Your submitting is not a sign of weakness; it is a sign of great strength. To submit fully when your every instinct is to fight and resist and to throw off such control takes much fortitude and courage, and I am always _so_ proud of you for choosing to submit to me.”

    Moran looks up at him still wearing a somewhat hangdog expression, and are his eyes actually a bit misty, Kitty wonders? She has never seen the self-assured colonel look so vulnerable and almost childlike before, so torn between what he craves and the terror of the unknown, and it’s rather humbling to see him behave so now.

     Deciding that such an action will be accepted by both men, Kitty sets her cigar down in an ashtray on the table beside her chair and stands up, moving over to sit on the arm of the sofa beside Moran.

    “Sebastian,” she says, and she puts her arm half-around him and gently strokes his hunched back. “I confess I had no clue about what James was intending to propose but now he has proposed it, it appeals to me a great deal and I reckon it does to you too, don’t it?”

    “Yes,” Moran whispers, without looking at her, and gulps the remainder of his drink.

    “But we ain’t gonna do anything you don’t want and nor are we gonna do anything like that tonight either.” _I ain’t sober enough for that_ , she thinks. “This is just… you know…” She waves her free hand in a vague gesture. “Things to consider for another time.” She dares to put her hand to his face now, drawing his chin up, and she is so close to both of them now, and it is almost no effort at all to drop into Moran’s lap, but her gaze is not on his, it’s on Moriarty’s, speaking to him without words, mindful of the fact that there are two other people’s feelings to consider here, not just the one.

    Moriarty gives the smallest of smiles and makes no move to suggest he would wish to stop her, and so Kitty leans in and kisses Moran on the mouth. It’s a hesitant kiss at first, a gentle press of her lips against his and then withdrawing a fraction to see how he responds.

   Moran swallows and he too looks to Moriarty. Many, many months of suppressing his longing for Kitty have conditioned him to pause now and seek reassurance from the one for whom he repressed that desire for another. “James,” he says. A question and a plea all at once, so uncertain is he about how to proceed without causing offence.

    Moriarty touches Moran’s shoulder so gently and gives him a very nearly-imperceptible nod, but Moran, who has learned to read the most subtle of cues from his master, understands. He kisses Kitty again, not consciously noticing when Moriarty gently takes the cigar from his hand and sets it aside, but now able to slip both hands through Kitty’s hair to gently pull her forward, kissing her with greater passion, and Kitty kisses back with just as much enthusiasm. First their lips and then their tongues meet in this moment when Moran realises just how much he has missed Kitty, a girl who deserves far better than someone like him but who somehow remains passionately fond of him nonetheless. He kisses her until both of them are breathless and Kitty’s bosom is heaving in a rather enticing manner, and until she has to pull back a bit for air, giggling at him in that way of hers that makes her look even more beautiful.

    He strokes her hair now, smoothing it back down where he’d ruffled it up, and he just looks at her for a moment, with that fetching, slightly coy smile on her lips and her cheeks turned pink and amusement in her eyes. He has not though forgotten about Moriarty, and whilst Kitty remains on his lap he turns his head to regard the professor. As he does so Moriarty seizes Moran’s chin, further turning his face sideways to claim a kiss of his own. This kiss is briefer but rougher, with a little bit of possessiveness, just to remind Kitty and Moran both that while he is willing to share he is not prepared to give Moran up entirely, but it is also not without affection, and when the kiss ends Moran sees warmth in the professor’s gaze, not the coldness and the distance he would expect were Moriarty to be experiencing real jealousy over Kitty here.


	18. Chapter 18

   Moriarty is the one who has the final say in this fledgling relationship between the three of them, that much is plain to Kitty, but Moran evidently accepts and even desires that this be so. It strikes Kitty as a strange arrangement and one potentially fraught with problems that will need to be worked through. However, it still appeals to her directly, not merely as some manner of compromise in which she must endure occasionally sharing Moran with Moriarty or else have nothing of him at all, but as an arrangement that could prove to be most enjoyable. As she is beginning to find the professor to be an immensely fascinating man, so she can sense that he is also becoming increasingly interested in her. Though still there is no sexual frisson between the two of them, she gets the sense of something more developing here, perhaps something far more enduring.

    “James, you meant what you said about the pair of you taking me to an opera?” she asks.

    “Of course. An opera, and a nice dinner out at a good restaurant and then perhaps we might return here, and… well, who knows what might occur after that?” Moriarty smiles, there being more than the faintest degree of suggestiveness in that smile.

    “What’d I wear for that though?” she asks. “I’m sure I don’t have nothin’ suitable for operas and fancy restaurants.”

    “You look stunning as you are,” Moran tells her. “Wear this again.”

    “Ignore him,” Moriarty says. “Moran possesses a strong aversion to buying anything other than the most practical of clothing, deeming anything else a needless frippery.” He declines to add that Moran would also likely still find Kitty attractive if she was dressed in rags, a sack or nothing at all, none of which would be suitable attire for an evening out. “He is correct however in that you do look very beautiful in that particular dress, but if you wish to pick out a new outfit for our operatic jaunt then I shall pay for it.”

    She eyes him suspiciously for a moment. “What’s the catch?” Not that she has any particular scruples about taking nice things from gentleman if they’re fool enough to offer (or quite often even when they don’t offer, although if they _will_ leave valuable things in such easily accessible pockets that’s pretty much the same thing as offering) but usually they expect something in return, and not always the kind of something Kitty is willing to give. In her experience then it pays to never take anything at face value and to always question the motives behind such offers first.

    “No ‘catch’. A gift, Kitty; a token gesture to demonstrate to you that I am sincere about wanting to get to know you better.”

    “And I can just pick out any dress I want?” she says, determined to push this as far as she can hypothetically before she accepts it as truth, and also wishing to ascertain just how much control Moriarty thinks he may wield over her. If he wants to fork out for her to look nice that’s one thing; if he wants to dictate to her every detail of what she must wear that’s quite another matter entirely, and she won’t stand for the latter. Moran might be content to allow himself to be the professor’s plaything, subject to Moriarty’s will and dominance, but Kitty is not Moran and is totally unlike him in this regard.

    “Any dress you like. Perhaps you might take Moran with you when you choose one; he makes an admirable bag-carrier.”

    “Oh I see, so you really just invited Kitty to join us so I can fetch and carry for the pair of you now,” Moran huffs.

    “Sounds all right to me,” she says with a grin, gripping Moran’s arm. Moran was never the sort to try to bulk himself up for show like some of the big bruisers to be found guarding certain houses of ill repute. His strength was always that of a soldier, wiry but tough, and a feel of his upper arm now confirms to her that he remains as lean yet muscular as he always was. “Big strong fella like you, you should be put to work for us.”

    “My sentiments exactly.” Moriarty gives Moran’s hand a squeeze to indicate that he is largely teasing him. “Kitty, my dear, I really do think you and I might work together admirably to teach Moran his proper place.”


	19. Chapter 19

  “I could certainly get behind that idea,” Kitty says, sliding off Moran’s lap now to place herself between the two, causing Moriarty to have to shuffle up slightly to make space for her.

    The professor though makes no protest, explicitly or otherwise, at Kitty insinuating herself even further into his space, and seems not to care even that Kitty’s leg (albeit beneath her layers of skirts and underskirts) is presently pressed against his or that her corseted body is so very close against his side. Perhaps he might not yet have reached the stage where he is comfortable initiating physical contact with her himself but he certainly seems accepting of it when she does so. “And Sebastian,” he says, “could you, do you think, get behind that idea also?”

    Moran looks from Moriarty to Kitty then down at his lap, still torn between his desires and his reluctance to confess to them, before he looks first back to Kitty (she looks eager, he notes, but also concerned for him), and finally back to the professor. Moriarty’s expression is almost unreadable, yet Moran grasps that he is truly excited about the possibilities that Kitty’s inclusion in some of their games raises, and so if Moriarty can be so open about trying new things, he supposes that so can he. “Yes,” he says finally. “I could.”

    “My good boy.” Moriarty leans across Kitty and strokes Moran’s cheek, while Kitty takes Moran’s hand in hers and covers it with the other.

    “It’ll be fun, Seb,” she says. _Fun to see you laid bare_ , she thinks, for whilst she has seen him naked enough times to lose count, she realises that she has never seen him stripped completely bare before, with all that he is and all that he desires on show. That would seem to be something he has reserved solely for his professor and though Kitty has glimpsed more of Moran’s true nature - his soul if you like - than anyone else except for the professor, certainly more than any of his other past sexual partners, even she has not seen right to the very heart of him before.

    Moran meets her gaze for a moment, not really surprised at Kitty’s enthusiasm for this prospect. Though not precisely forceful in bed, she always was a girl who knew her own mind, lived by her wits and was never the demure, passive sort – the kind of woman that many well-to-do men would crave as a mistress but never, ever want as a wife (although he’s sure that’s fine by her; not for Kitty the tedious middle-to-upper class dutiful wife role). It’s still unexpected all of this however - Kitty’s presence here like this; Moriarty’s willingness to experiment and to share him.

    “There is no rush, of course,” Moriarty says. “First, Kitty, we must arrange our trip to the opera. I believe I may be able to secure tickets for The Mikado next month – it is the latest work by Gilbert and Sullivan and I think perhaps it might be more suited to your first experience of opera than something more serious.”

    “Whatever you think, James.” She smiles broadly.

    “And Moran, perhaps if you would take Kitty shopping next week?”

    “Right, Professor.” It’s hardly worth complaining, Moran decides, despite his hatred of trailing round shops and being made to examine everything from bolts of fabric to buttons, as if he knows or cares about the fads and fashions of the day (and despite too his suspicion that shopping for clothes for a woman may prove to be even more tedious than shopping for himself or Moriarty). If he complains then Moriarty will still end up getting his way and Moran will just make himself look unreasonable in front of Kitty.

    “Excellent.” Moriarty bounds to his feet but turns to face them, looking as excited as a child with a new toy, and Moran knows that look. That is not the look the professor has about him when he’s playing some slightly sadistic game, toying with his prey and luring them into a false sense of security before he deals the coup de grace and expertly removes a thorn in his side for good. No, that is a look of real enthusiasm for a new venture. “Kitty,” he says. “Sebastian. Perhaps I have sprung my ideas upon the pair of you somewhat out of the blue tonight and for that, I must apologise. However I am immensely gratified to find you both amenable to exploring new avenues, and perhaps, well, taking the present relationship that exists between the three of us to whole new levels?” He rubs his hands together almost gleefully as he looks from Kitty to Moran. “I believe that tonight could prove to be the start of something endlessly intriguing for all three of us.”


	20. Chapter 20

   Kitty looks back at the professor, amused by his enthusiasm. This truly is not a side of him that she ever expected to see. “I’ll drink to that, James,” she says. “Or at least, I would if you’d give me another glass of that.” She gestures at the cognac decanter, and Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this before grinning.

    “Very well,” he says, and goes to pour more of the drink for her. “And for you, Sebastian?” Although Moran has never, in his experience, been known to turn down spirits and is probably not about to start now.

    “Don’t mind if I do.” He seems more relaxed now, less wary, Moriarty notes as he hands over the drink. “We will still… I mean… We’re gonna talk things over properly though before we do anything… _extreme_ , right?” he asks though as he takes the glass from the professor, his fingers very lightly brushing against Moriarty’s.

    “Of course.” Moriarty strokes his lover’s cheek briefly, smiling at him. “This is not something that should be rushed into recklessly – that is not how the best and most fulfilling games are played. Besides…” He looks towards Kitty, who now leans against Moran’s side, and he meets her gaze and holds it meaningfully for a moment. “I think perhaps that for some of our future endeavours it might be necessary for us to procure certain new, shall we say, _toys_. Miss Winter, Kitty, how would you feel about seeing Sebastian here dressed, for instance, in nothing but a leather collar?”

    “Christ, you’re a pair of depraved bastards, ain’t you?” Kitty says, but she’s giggling at this image, the genuinely amused sort of giggling, not the nervous sort of laughter.

    “Indeed,” Moriarty says softly, and he actually sounds proud of this. “And perhaps another day you might like to aid me in picking out a new collar for him to wear in some of our most _intimate_ games. I know a gentleman who can provide such things, objects of beautiful craftsmanship – such things should always be aesthetically appealing as well as functional, I feel – and who does not ask any awkward questions.”

    Kitty is still laughing, amused at how unperturbed Moriarty sounds; how normal all this seems to him and Moran, and also how easily she too has accepted such ideas, as she says, “You’re a rum one, James. Yes, I’d enjoy seeing you collared, _Tiger_.” She runs her fingers down Moran’s cheek before kissing him on the lips again. “And on a lead?” She darts a glance towards the professor.

    “Of course,” Moriarty concurs. “A lead is always necessary for proper control of one’s pet, don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

    Moran groans thickly as Kitty kisses him again, although whether it’s the kiss or the prospect of her taking such control of him alongside the professor (or both these things) making him react so is hard to judge. Likely he doesn’t know himself any more, his feelings towards the professor and for Kitty all becoming swirled together in one confusing yet deeply arousing mess. He actually finds himself genuinely relieved though when Kitty stops kissing him now and sits back beside him, for too much more of such stimulation from her whilst under the professor’s scrutiny and he’d probably have ended up climaxing in his trousers, which is really not how he would like this evening to end.

    Moriarty, wearing a thin smile, regards Moran’s flushed face and the way he sits there, squirming slightly uncomfortably and with his lips parted breathlessly. “Perhaps we might drink a toast now then,” he suggests, taking up his own glass again.

    “To what though, exactly?” asks Kitty.

    “To friendship?” Moriarty suggests.

    Moran snorts. “ _Friendship_. You mean the pair of you having your wicked ways with me.”

    “You say that as if the idea displeases you, Sebastian, and yet you do so thrill at such a notion,” Moriarty says, and Moran, with a wry smirk, does not deny this.

    “To friendship _and_ wicked games?” Kitty suggests with a sly grin.

    “Ah, an excellent suggestion.” Moriarty holds out his glass, and Kitty eagerly chinks hers against it. “To friendship and to wicked games.” He raises an eyebrow at Moran until he also joins in the toast. “And to the start of what I hope will prove to be a beautiful relationship.” 


End file.
